[o] Title of my sex book

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

"Hear, hear," Danta chimes, raising his glass to that sentiment and knocking back the rest of his drink in one. He reaches out to set it on a tray as a server passes, humming his confirmation as he turns back to Quentin with his fangs firmly back on show. "You would think, but it makes the whole chaotically integrating unseen into society bit more difficult. Imagine trying to take off a shirt if it was just an illusion, especially in the case of your unicorn man!" Not demure, not mindful.

Waving a hand yes to another server passing by - the question being, of course, whether to bring another round of drinks their way - Danta is about to agree heartily with his being right when, lo and behold, his long lost sister sashays past, his mouth falling open without his permission. "Holy fuck," he blurts, head tilting to get a better look at all the right places, though he's not sure if it counts as ego, incest, or something else entirely.

"I assume that's you?" he continues to Quentin. "I feel like I'd have noticed hiring myself." He's pretty as it is, for a man, but this is something else. "Come on now, Viv, let's not let an illusion show up the Dusklight," he quips to Vivian, prompting her to move from upset scoff right into turning Gary's head back to her waiting lips, as if to force him to pay attention to what's real.

"There you go - tension," Danta says, nodding approvingly.

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //

And they lived comfortably ever after, boob in hand

Chaotically integrating is absolutely a phrase that's going to show up in his book, and it scratches out on the page nearby with a circle around it as a reminder. "Oh, how clever," he glows, eyes alight with the fresh understanding and appreciation of this illusion you could literally grab onto (or not, in the case of vanishing horns and tails). A fresh thought pops to mind, and Quentin's thumb and forefinger scrub at the rough hairs dotting his chin.

"What a fascinating premise for a horror story," he muses. "Unicorn man buried between a lady's legs, and just before she finishes, glamor!" His hands waft out on either side, fingers tickling the air as he sprinkles the invisible glitter of intrigue. "She's run through with his horn that suddenly reappeared. Call him the edge keeper or something terribly spine-chilling." What goes hand in hand better than sex and horror, truly? Add to that the utter despair of a lost orgasm, and he's got a bestseller on his hands.

More ink scrawls out on the page.
Unicorn man edges his victims into demise. GLAMOR.

"Or perhaps, he doesn't mean to, and instead has a terrible time keeping a lid on it compared to most and it comes back without his control. Maybe he sneezes and it changes... so perhaps he needs an allergy? Or no, no, who wants snot getting into the mix." He hums, the thoughts jotting down on the page and just as quickly scratching out. "What sounds scarier, him killing them on purpose or on accident? Or maybe both. Perhaps it starts as an accident, and then that becomes his kink." Porque no los dos, as the famous saying goes.

If it isn't apparent by now, Quentin has a habit of thinking nearly every thought he has is a worthwhile idea to pursue. His publishers and the public don't seem to argue the point, and so the feeding of the ego goes round and round.

He is drawn from the library of his mind to the current conundrum of a plot, and after sorting out that yes, a third should be added to the mix, he does so. Danta's surprise, or perhaps it's just his proclamation towards his likeness being a divine bang, Quention's attention slides away from the scene. "Hm?" he wonders at first, forgetful at times that's just conjured something into being, what with the genius he is, and all doing it all the time on paper, or otherwise. "Oh, her, yes. I do like pretend, as I said," he smirks faintly. "Sometimes it's nice to have it be real though," he admits, case in point, why he's here. Dianta serves as a fine third for now.

After the initial ruckus of her introduction, Gary and Vivian, the true professionals they are, get back into the swing of things with Dianta serving as a sexy little distraction for them both. "Hmm, perhaps Dianta is trying to keep the werefiend curse. How nefarious," he considers with delight, scratching out more notes on the paper as Gary finally stiffens enough to get back to his task of stabbing boxes and growling with the appropriate amount of moisture.

Quentin

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

"It is, isn't it?" Danta purrs, accepting his new drink from the server and lifting it to his lips - which is just about the time that Quentin starts to prepare his word salad. Half a chopped unicorn horn, a handful of accidentally-on-purpose murder and a dollop of blood(?)cum(?)snot(?) and the Maverick has no idea what story the other man is considering writing, but he's fascinated by how everything will apparently fit together.

"I guess it depends. If you want it to be a classic horror story, he should be the villainous murderer who kills for the thrill and must be stopped by... er, I don't know. Gary over there?" He gestures towards the man with his glass. "But if you want him to be your heartbroken and misunderstood hero, you can have it be accidental. He has to fight his urges to solve the crime and fall in love, or some shit."

Quentin might let his thoughts spill forth without abandon, but clearly the Maverick is a master of shittalking, and between them it's a wonder that Gary and Vivian are capable of keeping their concentration (or Gary's erection) at all. They manage it, though, and Danta has gotten halfway through his new drink while admiring his buxom twin and whatever werefiending is happening when he realises he could be doing some fucking of his own.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," he says with a sudden grin and a filthy glint in his eye, "but I suddenly have the urge to find my own monster to play with. Hopefully we'll see each other very soon." Winking and raising the book Quentin has so kindly signed for him, Danta makes himself scarce and leaves the writer to his snarling and the inevitable slap of skin on skin.

All in a day's work for both of them.

~FIN

Dantalion

// get them drunk on rose water //