[o] Title of my sex book

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

As she arced back into the plush lounge, she was at once caught in the parallel of the softness at her back and the hard, rigid shape of the man's sword sheathing and unsheathing inside of her. It was a rich blend of sensation, and being guided into that limbo of feeling meant the pillowy fabric behind her began to feel too sharp for all its softness, and the swordsman too dull now. "More, stab it into me more!" she cried out, the heave of her chest breasting over the turgid grip of his thumb on her side. An animalistic growl, not unlike the brave and impressive lion, roused in respon—what the fuck IS that!

"No, no, no!" Quentin cries out suddenly, the ink on the paper abruptly stopping its scrawl beside him. It shimmers with the still-wet of something freshly written, catching the low, warm lighting of the Dusklight with a winking quality. "That sounded like you were about to cough up something wet on her," he complains, striding out of his stool to gesture with a grand, sweeping hand at the nude man currently balls deep in the woman cast over the lounge chair with all the care and reach of freshly heaped laundry. "You want to really pull it down from your chest," Quentin squats a touch as both hands dive down in front of him, scooping up some air and bringing it up with a show of resistance that dosn't exist. "Dig deep man. It should sound like you are a wild, primal thing that can only be tamed by her vagina."

He sets one hand out into the air in front of him now, clasping an invisible body, his other hand falling behind him for balance as he gyrates into the invisible beauty. "Then, after the growl, remember you hooooold it. Hold it! And say, 'you are mine'." Quentin's teeth click together and he faintly shakes his head back and forth, seeming to tear at something unseen. "And your teeth, you bare them just a little under the curl of your lip so the sound can some through all mangled because you're absolutely devolving into her fabulous pussy. Your fingers should press hard enough into the side of the seat you're holding to splinter the wood, as you grab for enough purchase to tear her apart precisely as she needs to orgasm, which is the only purpose of your existence in this very moment!"

Quentin

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"Oh my gods, and then what?"

Velvet curtains part just behind the lounge chair - the Dusklight's very modern take on being able to provide and do away with privacy at any moment - revealing the proprietor himself, elbows propped on the back of his plush booth so he can peer down at what's happening. His eyes light up at the sight of the increasingly bemused (and flaccid) man, Danta offering a lazy salute. "Gary," he says, nodding in greeting. And then to the woman, "Vivian."

But anyway, back to devolving into fabulous pussies. "Come on, don't leave a guy hanging," Danta continues, blue eyes pinned on the vagina-tamer gyrating midair. "I was really getting into it before you put that image in my head - you know, the coughing wet stuff. Some people are into that though, you know."

Having completely abandoned the paperwork he'd been doodling all over, the Maverick leans properly against the back of the booth now, and he does a brief doubletake at this apparent sex instructor. "Oh shit, are you that writer guy?" he asks. "Man, I thought a load of the workers had been mentioning you scribbling away down here lately. Fuck, if it wasn't Leafchange, I'd offer to take over for Gary. Maybe in a few days, huh?"

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

The only disturbing thing to Quentin about the addition of Danta's voice is the unexpected nature of it. His head at once whirls over his shoulder, regarding the Theocrat with the bright-eyed surprise of something new suddenly being introduced. "Oh no," he moans at once, forehead tilting into his hand as if fighting off the onset of a headache. "Tell me you're not one of my stalkers trying to get a sneak peek again?" He squints through the lines of his fingers as if a boy too curious about a horror movie to truly bother hiding from it. Amid the dim of the bar and brothel, he can make out the angle of Danta's face and the bright glitter of an enthused stare, but it doesn't register with the same rabid insistence of said stalkers.

"Oh, you're the Maverick," he realizes with a snap of his fingers as they slide away from the refreshed pallor of his features, no longer beleaguered by an obsession he must keep at bay. "No, I've already explored mucus quite deeply in Snail Trail - a Path to Clitvana. I'm onto something new now." He gestures towards Vivian and Gary nearby, his muse in action. "This will be my latest, Dick Tamer. And this is the paramount scene where Boobily finally quells Bolls and is able to lift the sexy curse that comes every full moon. Werefiends, is what they are otherwise."

"And werefiends, do not growl wetly." He shoots an accusing glance towards Gary and the limp sock of a penis now crawling pack up his thighs. Quentin sighs and waves his hand loftily towards them. "Just, take ten and go hydrate. Maybe gargle something to clear all that phlegm and come back once you've found your inner beast."

Turning back properly towards Danta, Quentin straightens a touch, drawing his shape further away from the spread of thrusting someone into heaven. "I daresay, writer guy is nearly an insult," he scoffs, wrist flicking out to his side as he bows mildly. "Quentin King, winner of the most prestigious writing awards," he says not unkindly, a rich warmth quickly pouring over the potential sting of offense with all the same burn of any good liquor. "Although...why replace? You could certainly be a nicely featured werefiend too you know," and Quentin's fingers drum against one another beneath his chin as he considers the Theocrat in a fresh light. On the paper, fresh ink begins to scratch away.

Before Bolls can finish the ritual, a territorial dispute rears up mightily as a new alpha male enters the scene, drawn by the scent of Boobily's need for fulfillment.

Quentin

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"One of your whatnow?" Danta chirps, an elbow propped against the top of the booth so he can rest his chin in his hand as he watches a dejected Gary slink away for some water (and probably some dutch courage). Vivian is hot on his heels, offering him an encouraging pat to his shoulder and something to the effect of thinking his bestial roar was perfectly adequate, even if it was a bit soggy sounding.

By the time his attention is drawn back to Quentin the Writer Guy, he appears to have been recognised himself, Danta offering a bright smile and a nod. "At your service, except not right now," he croons, shifting enough that he might clamber down from his perch to circle around and chat properly with the man who has explored mucus - deeply.

Mouthing the word Clitvana long after Quentin has moved on from it, evidently Danta is enraptured by the mere thought of such a book, and if he realises he has joined the ranks of werefiends in this latest bestseller, he's got terrible reading comprehension not showing it. "Gods, that would be fun," he admits, "but I'm afraid my fiance would tear your head right off your shoulders. Ha, kind of like one of your werefiends, I guess. He doesn't growl wetly either, I promise."

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

The air grows suddenly, oppressively still around you. Caught in the eye of a storm you didn't know you were in, you almost wish for the shrieking cries, for thunderous wails of unrest.

Instead, it's a mournful, keening sound that sighs overhead, like a voice too tired to scream any longer. More human, perhaps, than any other voice in the storm, you're nevertheless relieved when it's gone.

---

You have encountered one of the Scream Rain SE serendipities! You may use this to complete requirement 1. of the seasonal event. Please note: this serendipity CANNOT be used for levelling purposes.

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

"Oh, an exuberant court member," he says with a degree of eyeroll that doesn't quite make a good showing of a flutter or all the whites of his eyes. "Not that I don't appreciate the eagerness, and a king needs his court after all, but there are some boundaries. I don't want to wake up and find another little weirdo jerking off at the foot of my bed again." Not uninvited, at least. This, of course, about his stalkers, for which he is very glad Danta is not. Perhaps the one redeeming quality to the Theocrat only knowing him as that Writer Guy.

Sighing with all the hefty weight of fame's crown upon his head, Quentin slips neatly back upon his stool. "That's what gave me the idea for the werefiends though. Lemons and lemonade, as they say," he sniffs, pulling the martini towards him from where it sweats near the paper. "Pity," he laments Danta's schedule, sipping on the edge of his glass as the Maverick descends like the itsy bitsy spider to a seat on his side of the curtain. On the paper beside them, several strikes of dark ink blot out the latest passage he'd just added. With a habit too frequent to even register anymore, one of his hands sweeps through his hair, pulling back into form whatever bits had fallen out of place with his demonstration.

With renewed interest in the poorly read ancient, Quentin's brows lift up in unison at the described fiance. "No, I should think not if he's made it to the fiancé stage. Wet growlers don't seem the sort to find a longterm romance in my experience." Case in point, Gary. "I happen to be rather attached to my head, so let's not do anything that will end in its removal," Quentin decides with all the neat attention one might afford their attire for the day. "However your husband-to-be sounds like a delightfully possessive and jealous type. It's always an inspiring sort for stories such as this. Do you think he'd let me keep my head if it was the two of you together on this lounge?"

Quentin

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"Oh? Send them our way if you catch another one doing it - you usually have to pay extra for that here," Danta says with interest. Poorly read or not, Quentin King, Porn Lord is very good at evoking mental imagery with spoken word alone, and the Maverick takes in the scene of his latest literary masterpiece with fresh eyes.

Having forgotten his own drink, he absently waves a hand to flag over a server without tearing his eyes away; instead, he's fixated on the way the pen is scribbling and darting across the paper all by itself. "Where can I get one of those," he asks, slowly inching towards it (and don't worry Quentin, he's not going to steal your prize ideas, because it'll take him a few minutes just to read them).

"Very well said," he agrees on the subject of wet growlers - though the slant of a grin on his face says he's got a few other euphemisms that might be more palatable in that arena. "And he most certainly is." The possessive and jealous type, he means, Danta turning slowly as he realises what the other man is offering, dark delight blooming through his expression. "While you watched and wrote about it? Hot. I mean, I'll have to ask him, but I'm in."

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

The explanation that his stalker might have been skirting owed pay for his proclivities is a mildly wounding thought. Much as Quentin did not want an unannounced midnight masturbator, he also very much found the notion flattering in a way that, well, suggested maybe he did want the very thing he claimed not to. What a terribly confusing thing it is to be human, wanting what you hate, and hating that you want. "Is that why you think he came to my bed?" Quentin asks in the way that circles the answer, hoping Danta might placate his ego with more information. "Dodging payment rather than fulfilling dreams and affections?" A frown has started to settle, because if that's the case, fuck that little cum nugget for thinking he could get away with skimming the Dusklight. Of all the bedrooms to select, Quentin's was not one to choose if there was anything less than awe and stupor being pursued. He'd be sure to string the little cock gremlin up proper if it came to it again.

At the nod towards his pen-like abilities, ink welling on paper without any vehicle other than the shimmer of his mind, Quentin's mood vastly improves from the vengeful scowl it'd begun to descend to. "Ah, fabulous bit of work isn't it?" He grins, always pleased to show himself off. "I fear your horns and tail, beautiful as they are, might I add, will keep you from such a trick as this. Dygra does grant her ancients quite a lot of nice things, but this is something I came into in my teenage years. Certainly made school work easier." To demonstrate, his thoughts well fresh ink on the page, a bold hello staring up at Danta. "I can think it on most any surface that takes ink," he clarifies, and might have drawn a nice thing on Danta's arm before thinking better of losing his head. Instead, he holds up his own palm, and a little smiley face appears. "Although I'm sure the gilded market could make you an imitation pen," he muses. "Nothing quite so grand, of course." It's hard to duplicate perfection.

"That's exactly right," he confirms without delay at what exactly he intends to do with Danta and his fiance on the lounge. "An artist can't only give, he must also be fed. You and your beau sound like quite a meal." Especially with Gary quickly proving to be little more than an appetizer. A pleased smile unwinds the casual sit of Quentin's lips as Danta half-agrees, and he nods with all the declaration of a deal being struck. "Excellent. Well just drop me a word or two when it's decided, it'll take me some time yet to finish this." A stray hand waves at the paper beside him.

Quentin

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"I mean," Danta says slowly as he considers the midnight masturbator in far more detail than anyone likely thought necessary. "Did he look particularly poor? And was he more focused on you or on the act itself? There are a lot of motivations to want to jerk off in secret at the foot of someone's bed, you know." All of that is to give a big, unhelpful could be either in response to Quentin's ego fishing. "Perhaps you can ask him if it happens again?"

Already drifting further towards the ink dancing of its own accord on the parchment as the other man demonstrates it properly, the smile on Danta's lips is just a little victorious at the simple hello that appears - he can certainly read that well enough, and that's cause for celebration all on its own. "It is quite the thing," he agrees, the tip of his spaded tail flicking as if in response to being mentioned. "Have you considered acting as a scribe in your spare time?" The motivation is selfish, obviously; Danta would be able to write and fire off letters much more quickly if he didn't have to hold the pen (and spell the words) himself.

Luckily for Quentin, he's saved being potentially roped into a side hustle by the mention of the Gilded Market, Danta's eyes lighting up. "Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly clever?" he drawls, accepting the drink the server brings over and slouching quite comfortably on the couch that Vivian and Gary had vacated.

"More than a meal," he agrees of himself and Asta - and if you catch them in the wrong sort of mood, they might be the ones getting fed. Still, it's an intriguing thought, and he nods agreeably. "Say, you don't happen to have any spare copies of... what was it? The Path to Clitvana? My bitier half is an avid reader, but I don't know that he's enjoyed any of your work. I could let him see what he's in for."

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

Quentin considers the questions for a moment, the seriousness of it drawing his fingers into a steeple beneath his chin. His lips purse in thought, brow wrinkling over the potential. After this brief pause of evaluation, he audibly inhales and flicks a finger up as he returns with, "I didn't get a good enough look. It was dark, and there was a lot of screaming." Most of it from himself, though he doesn't elaborate on that detail. "In fact, I'm not even sure if he finished." This new conundrum troubles, and he looks postiviely crestfallen about the potential for a moment. "Yes!" he chimes readily, distracted by Danta's genius. "Asking him is a grand idea. I'll do that next time. Do you think there will be a next time?" If he sounds hopeful, it's only because now he desperately wants to ask.

Porn Lord is hardly a flame held up to the blaze that is Brothel Owner. Circling back to some of Danta's other words, which had stayed fuzzy while lamenting a cum-less dick thrashing in the middle of the night, Quentin hears them anew. "Just for curiosity sake though, what do you think the other reasons would be? What's the top reason, would you say?" Attentive as ever, potential research for werefiending right at the tip of the Maverick's tongue, Quentin leans in.

As for his ability, where Quentin can easily glow and feign a casual disinterest akin to a girl's oh this old thing? said about her dress she absolutely spends too much time on, Danta swiftly manages to fluff only to then flatten. "A scribe?" Quentin nearly chokes on his own saliva he's so aghast at the idea. "Perish the thought!" he demands, leaning on the first syllable as if crutches to carry him back to dignified connversation. He swiftly tosses back half his martini, evidently deciding he needs more liquid courage in order to continue to sit here and be insulted. "Scribes, like teachers, are merely the authors who have failed. I can assure you, I am no failure. Besides, all my time is devoted to creating my art. Any time I am not, I am in recovery, which is equally as important to the process." Whoring about is a work expense, in his opinion. Luckily, Danta comes back around to fluffing, and Quentin is much more agreeable to compliments. "Yes, often actually!" he beams in response.

Never one to turn up his nose at connections, Quentin's expression gleams appreciatively at the request. It'd do well to stay on the good side of the Dusklight's owner, surely, and especially so if he'd be performing as a main course of muse. "For you? But of course I do." Grappling for his leather satchel beneath the table top, he withdraws the pale, mucus-colored cover of his past work. He flips the front page open, then pauses and looks pointedly up at Danta. "I'll even personalize ti and sign it, makes it worth quite a lot then, you know. Ah, but who am I making this out to? Or will he know it if I just write, bitier half of Danta?"

Quentin

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"A sign of a good time, some might say." Danta nods agreeably. Some of his best times have been in the dark and with a lot of screaming, and he wasn't even having sex for some of them. His eyebrows raise, both surprised and intrigued to hear that the rogue masturbator hadn't even gotten to climax, and he spreads his hands before taking a sip of his drink. "I would say so, if he didn't even cum," he tells him. Though that leads nicely into his next question, in fact, Danta lowering his glass with all the quiet focus necessary when considering the philosophy of wanking.

"The top reason is because they like to watch. The fact that you don't know they're watching is what gets them off," he explains. "But some of them like being caught. For others, it's the particular person that scratches that itch - which sounds like it might be the case for your unexpected roommate. After that you get into more nuanced fetish territory - that's less common." Suffice to say, Danta has a little too much experience of the peeping Tom community.

Going back to his drink, the Maverick's eyes widen dramatically and he holds up his free hand as if to say no offence had been intended, flashing Quentin a fanged smile over the edge of his glass. "Pretend I never so much as insinuated it," he says by way of begging for forgiveness.

Which appears to have been earned, by the way the other man fetches his satchel and produces a copy of his prior work, Danta leaning forward as if intrigued by the cover already. "Ah, you can make it out to The Mighty Astaroth," he says. "I'm sure he'll like that."

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

An audible "hmmm," considers Danta's reasons, each of them sensible enough. Ink scratches out rapidly on the paper beside him, less flowing with the script of sentences but instead jerking with bullet points and the shorter statements of memory-joggers.

• Creepy watcher fucks, not dignified
  
• Thrill seekers fucking risk - risk could be a good name for a woman for double meaning
  
• Die-hard fans
  
• Fetishes WIP
  

"Mm, I've always had a hard time understanding the hiding while watching," he confesses, ink stilling as he leans onto his palm and re-crosses his legs. "To each their own though, I suppose, but I think they're missing out. Can't quite beat the feeling of being watched and knowing it. Of course watching, while known you are, is also superb. People put on quite a show then, and you get to see all of it." He's certainly accustomed to lots of bystanding. Comes with the territory of research, although there's a point where one needs to get hands on and truly embrace the material too.

The offense is forgotten as swiftly as it is earned, Quentin flapping it away with his hand as he leans back off the little table. "Done. I do love pretending." Catching on the toothy remark of Danta's expression, Quentin's focus narrows a touch and a finger wags out a little at the Maverick. "I've always wondered, how do you manage a cock in your mouth when you've got fangs. Do you have to roll your lips quite so?" Quentin emulates something of a grandfather without his dentures, or that's the goal, it looks more like a yawn he won't let loose. "Or is it all about angles?" The werefiends are fanged, obviously. "Well, maybe that's one of the things you and your hubtobee can demonstrate."

With the book pressed open in his hands, dark lines begin to swoop out in response to the suggested name.
The Mighty Astaroth,
Embarking upon a snail trail to clitvana is no easy adventure to make. It will be wet, it will be wild, and it will be life changing. May you come away from it rock hard and inspired to take your fiancé's mucus to new heights.

Yours truly, 
Quentin King

Blowing over it gently to dry the ink, Quentin's gaze travels to the side of his view where the movement of Gary and Victoria's return snags his focus. "Ahh, welcome back. You can take it from the top my beautes," he informs them as he snaps the book shut and slides it across to Danta. Quentin shifts slightly in his chair to grant him a better view of the two, who begin to fluff Gary's dick back into something erect. He doesn't abandon Danta, and in fact leans in a bit on his elbow and offers in hushed tones. "She has to properly seduce him before the full moon sets in order to free them of the curse that turns them into sex fiends. This sounds easy, but see, they are so crazed they are easily distracted by movement and anything else that could be, well, plundered. It's a courtship, really, a true taming. So it's quite meaningful that he goes against his baser nature to fuck her."

Quentin

// I thought of angels choking on their halos //

"Ah, see, but you would pair well with someone who likes to hide while watching in that case," Danta says with all the reasonable consideration of a man who judges libido for a living. "It's the idea of it in any case, thinking that you don't know they're there. I'm pretty sure that's what gets them off. Creepy if you look at it too close, but people don't pay to be analysed here, they pay to fuck."

Sipping idly at his drink as Quentin makes out his inscription to Asta in the book, Danta seems almost obscenely comfortable on the couch, arching an eyebrow at the other man's curiosity. "Oh, well - if it cums down to it I just glamour them away," he explains, gesturing to himself and pinning the writer with a suddenly ordinary, fangless smile. "We can do it with any and all of our Ancient traits, else it would be a gory business to go down on a lady for some of us. Horns can get a bit wild from Ancient to Ancient, you know."

Then again, angles does make a great number of things easier and more interesting, Danta raising his glass in a toast to that point. "Sometimes I do like to keep them," he admits of the fangs. "Danger is the spice of life. Isn't that the saying?" Probably?

Rolling to his feet as Gary and Vivian return, he gestures to the couch with a flourish as if to say he's kept it warm for them, moving to stand beside Quentin as they start to get back to work. "Oh I see," he says as he explains, nodding his understanding. "Well in that case, maybe you need to have something sexy here to distract Gary and make Vivian work harder to seduce him?" Surely the answer is more people. It usually is.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

"And thank the gods for that," Quentin beams with all the gratitude of a flower to the dawn. "There should be far more fucking than analyzing in the world, in my humble opinion." Though he says it, there's not a humble bone or thought that belongs to him, but it feels right in the same way an atheist still proclaims bless you! following a sneeze. That Quentin happens to be analyzing fucking is a truth he doesn't bother to register, much like a shoplifter.

"Is that what that does?" His gaze narrows a touch on Danta's fresh teeth, and it's all he can do to keep from reaching out to run his finger over them. "Here I thought that was just an illusion, and a fine way of saying how glamorous you all are." The tails and horns he'd known about, and nods in emphatic agreement with Danta's assessment of the possible troubles otherwise, sometimes welcome, sometimes less so. "Oh, don't I know it! Once met a fellow who had just the one right in the center of his forehead, like a unicorn. He was a favorite at the bar for drinking games." Ring-toss on legs.

Instead of laughter, a knowing sort of twinkle finds his eye as Quentin finishes off his drink on the heels of Danta's astute quote. "Quite. No one wants anything bland." Not to eat. Not to read. Not to fuck. Which, is exactly why he's in the business he's in.

"Do you think?" he considers of Danta's input with a tilt to his head. Angles, and all. "Yes, maybe I am rushing the climax." Of the book, or otherwise. "More tension is needed," he agrees with a deep nod, and from behind them a woman who looks remarkably like Danta with tits and longer hair sashays forth. There's more to her than just the lady lumps and length—curves where they matter, a presence of sin, a mouth that draws the eye as it pops open with a stray breath—but she may as well be his near-identical sister for all the other noticeable traits to her.

She, Dianta, let's call her, reaches out with a hand towards Gary. The touch is light on his shoulder, her body already curling around behind him to the other side, causing him to turn one way and then the other which leaves her positively grinning, fangs and all. Her tail slaps him smartly on the ass, causing the startled man's hips to tuck in a bit, right into her awaiting palm which slides down to take him from Vivian. This, of course, earns a bit of an upset scoff from Vivian, who glances pointedly to Quentin, who only shrugs, the motion of his shoulders suggesting she do the very same, roll with it. The illusion falters a bit where it comes into contact with Gary's rousing erection, stuttering beneath the muddled concentration of someone more than one martini deep.

Quentin