calvinbox | open post | 6

[ Merlin doesn't, as a general rule, go on missions. Or that is, he didn't. This was before Valentine's attempted culling found Kingsman short a handful of field agents and a sizable helping of assorted staff. As one of the senior operatives left in their establishment to put the pieces back together, Merlin found that he trusted new blood less and himself more to actually get things done.

A life without Harry Hart to trust intimately to do what needed to be done in very specific ways did make things more difficult.

Merlin, out in the field engaging in face to face espionage. A real treat to any who knows him, though if they were a less professional bunch he might expect a betting pool to form as to whether he could keep his generalized misanthropy under wraps. (He's a professional, and better at it than the young blood might think.) Any sensible, reasonable person would have someone running point FOR him, speaking in his ear from a secure location, but not Merlin. He could do the whole thing himself, with one agent on site in case of an emergency. This wasn't exactly the sort of mission where he needed to be fed passwords and combinations quicker than he could think of them (he had resigned himself as defeated by the computer in the 80s). That one agent? Eggsy Unwin. Who else but Eggsy in this post-Harry world did he trust?

In the back of his mind, a voice suggests that he might regret that unintended attachment.

The Party: Posh, with an air of illicit illegality that is only spoken of in code. A jaunt of high brow parlor games hiding seedy activity in plain sight with casino cliche. A romp for the wealthy and bored.
The Attire: Not so up itself to .be black tie, but a Kingsman bespoke suit and Merlin's tartan pocket square was an expected level of designer flare.
The Drink: Scotch, neat. Any extra ice or garnish would be a disgrace among good Scottish spirits.
The Mark: A stunningly beautiful woman with a brain to almost match his own (almost). A tech mind who needed convincing that working with Kingsman would be worth her time.

Convincing. Seducing, really.

The irony of him being the most qualified to seduce a woman who, if he was successful, would then know full well that he's as gay as the day is long, is absolutely not lost on him.

All fine details considered though, Hamish Campbell and Lady Maria Abernathy have been deep in conversation over their drinks and a game of chess for a good two hours. The party continues around them, and the two sit in equal strength, almost toe to toe and knee to knee, otherwise engaged. ]

His heavy hand closed on the back of his lieutenant's neck. Over the silken fall of his gold-bright hair, the grip firm enough to feel the searing heat of the other man's skin against his palm.

He turned the other man's face toward him, so that the point of his tongue could flick a hot stripe bisecting the other man's mouth before he leaned closer still, cementing his grip with a sharp-toothed and savage kiss.

Savagery is in contrast to the order that Mairon chooses to project in his existence, and yet that savagery in his master stokes the fire of Mairon's fea like oil to a furnace. Fingernails like claws shoot up from his tools to grip at the front of Melkor's robes, and searing hot lips open up to be consumed.

Well, for a moment at least.

When the opportunity in Melkor's aggressive kiss presents itself, Mairon manages to speak, not putting more than a millimeter of distance between their lips and keeping nose to nose, face to face.

"Am I to put my work aside at your whim now? Do you think so little of my process My Lord?"

[ Everyone ends up in Sakaar eventually, and that's just the way The Grandmaster likes it.

The seven story club complex that the Grandmaster built up from the ground decades ago is the beginning and end of night life in Miami. Every floor is a party, with different crowds catered to every night on some haphazard rotating schedule that had now long since become tradition. Free drinks for single ladies on the second floor on Tuesdays. Leather nights on the 4th, hit Trap DJs down in the lower level. High rollers made it all the way up to the sixth floor below The Grandmaster's personal penthouse, with full glass walls allowing Miami's elite in life, crime and politics to knock elbows with a great view of the skyline overlooking the endless night of ocean. Behind sound-proof walls an invitation and a changing password could welcome the more curiously inclined to relieve their tensions and inhibitions within the secrecy of mutual scandal; the unspoken promise of silence that came with a high-end sex club.

Almost half a century ago now, a twiggy piece of technicolor trash told his bull-dyke lesbian kiwi of a roommate that he was going to make something of himself in this beach-side swamp town, and look how far he's come. Sakaar was legend, and the man behind the complex could live comfortably knowing that if he went down the drug kingpins who sold their wares in his abode and the judges who liked getting spanked were all going down with him.

Honestly, he hasn't worried about a damn thing in at least two decades. Not really.

At the very moment, The Grandmaster's top concern was not the Mayor's needs being serviced down the hall, nor the price of the weed in the joint between his fingers. No, he was much more concerned with the quality of it as smoke sat in the back of his throat and exhaled through his lips. Even more than the smoke from his mouth he was preoccupied with the lovely sights and sensations between his legs as this absolutely gorgeous red head sucked his cock. What was her name again? Amelia? Amanda? Arthur? She had been here before, between his knees with his fingers tangled in her hair. Everyone always came back, and he knew everyone. Familiar faces said hello, had a brief chat and she kept going, and that was nice.

Not as nice though, as the new face he hadn't seen before. He noticed the New Guy across the room just as Topaz leaned in to speak into his ear Should I find out who gave him an invitation?]

What? No--

[ He merely waved Topaz away and pressed the Alyssa's head down further on his cock, and watched the New Guy. ]

( Thor had begged Loki not to leave when he announced his imminent departure over their weekly family dinner. It's been an extraordinarily long time coming, all things considered, and Lord knows he and Odin have locked horns enough times over the years to warrant a spectacularly dramatic flounce. Their most recent argument had sunk the battered remains of their relationship to depths far beyond rescue, and it was through the tense air of dessert that Loki straightened his back, set down his spoon, and detailed why they could all go fuck themselves.

It began when, resulting from a chance glance through the wrong file, Loki discovered the reasons why he had been adopted. His route into the Odinson family was the result of a rare moment of the old tyrant's guilt: Loki's birth parents were Icelandic, headed a ferocious anarchist organisation, and were some of Odin's most outspoken opposition. They died in a car accident en route to a clandestine meeting at the Norwegian Embassy in Oslo - one that they never would have taken if not for his insistent bullying. The whole uncomfortable affair was kept as quiet as possible - the papers were paid off across two continents - and their new-born son was quickly adopted by Odin and Frigga.

On its own, that would have been bad enough. Anyone would have been reasonably hurt and upset to find out the secrets of their past in such a way, but what made it all so much worse was the fact that Odin appeared to be gearing up to some kind of ... announcement. Alongside his file, he'd found a rough draft of a speech pertaining to Thor. Thor, whose mind for politics is laughably non-existent. Thor, who was about to receive an incredible Governmental promotion while Loki continued to languish in the same position for years, despite being the one to deal with all of Odin's less-than-savory work behind the scenes.

The lying. The cheating. The underhand gathering of information. Gods, he'd even slept with a handful of Odin's political rivals so that his father could blackmail them about it when needed - and for what? So that Thor could be furthered along the career that had been meant for him all along?

Quitting his job was the natural next step. Then, getting the fuck out of Norway.

America seemed like the perfect place to hide out and lick his wounds. He pulled a few Odinson strings, forged a handful of documents, and produced an extended Visa for himself, before packing up his clothes, his makeup, and his laptop and saying his final fuck-yous. An old sugardaddy contact in Miami offered him a beachside apartment for as long as he needed - sexual favours implied - and so Loki has spent the last fortnight getting himself settled to the rhythms of Miami life.

Discovering Sakaar, on the other hand, has been more of a happy accident than a detailed plan. One of his new companions (rich, gay, coke habit) had invited him for a night out on his Black Card, and they've ended up in the middle of what looks like a high-end sex party where the music is trashy and the drinks are excellent. He's a head taller than everyone else - Louboutins will do that - and striking enough to be attracting drinks from strangers, which means that he's in the middle of accepting a dry martini from some starry-eyed young thing when something interesting catches his eye.

A man, receiving a blowjob, who also happens to be staring right at him. )

... Who's he?

( The stranger seems to be in command of the floor itself. Guests approach him in greeting, stay for a few words, and then find themselves waved on from their lord and his court. The sour-face lesbian next to him must be acting as some kind of bodyguard; Loki shoos away the boy attempting to woo him and leans in to his older, more knowledgable friend. )

Him? That's Gast. Owns this joint - and half of Miami.

( The man (Michael?) chuckles as though he's made a funny little joke, but Loki understands it differently. He understands power. Cocking his hip just so, he leans back against the bar and lifts his glass in a small toast as he lets his gaze soften into something steamy. Yes - he'll have Gast, and come up with a new plan from there. )

[ This New Guy. The more that the Grandmaster watches him, the more that he's sure that this lithe creature was sculpted for the sheer purpose of being watched. He moves with unnatural elegance, from the tips of his designer heels to the end of his nose, and in that moment En Dwi Gast wants. He wants to know who he is, wants to know what his intentions are, wants to know if he's really as delicate as he looks.

There's a twinkle in his eye as he keeps them locked on Loki's, and he gets this very strong feeling that comes with experience that the answer to that question would be a resounding no.

The Grandmaster waves down whomever is closest, pointing to the bar. Get that one over there a drink on the house. It's going to take a little more time than he would like to get over to where he wants to be, and the messenger would bridge that particular gap. In the time that it took to decide that he Wants, the Grandmaster had virtually forgotten about the girl sucking on his now half-hard cock. He taps at her chin, doesn't even bother putting the energy into pulling her off, and in a second she is but an afterthought. He's tucked himself back into his too-tight rolled up pants, and he makes it to Loki's side mere seconds after the drink it slid in front of him.

He waves away Loki's companion with the same disinterest and entitlement that he did the girl who had been servicing him mere minutes ago. A shoo/i> even sits vaguely on his tongue. His interest, his attention--they are entirely on the New Guy and the New Guy alone.

He leans in close; he doesn't need to beat around the bush in his own club. ]

You know...I, uh, feel like I know you, but you are definitely new. I've never seen you before in my life, and I would ah--definitely remember that face. Want to tell me what a guy like you is doing in a little place like this?

[ Tacky. Nice! ]

[ The message arrives in the middle of the day, while Thomas is very much at his desk working. Coordinating food stores for a convoy sent to set out in the next month in fact. Essential work that he can do with his eyes closed at this point. ]

Sir I've had a thought.

I’m sure you have. Well? What is it, Jopson?

I would like to clean your flat, Sir. Preferably with nothing on but an apron and marigolds.

Would that be alright, Sir?

Good Christ, man.

Not telling me I live like an animal, are you?

Nothing like that Sir, I would just like to do that for you so you don't have it.

I'm quite good on my hands and knees, Sir.

That you are. Quite the lovely sight, you are.

When are you free, then, to expand my horizons?

Thank you Sir, that's much appreciated.

I rather thing it might take a few hours. We both happen to have our schedules free this Sunday. I don't mind working on the Lords day.

[ He’s at work, Thomas. Are you trying to kill him? In public? ]

It’ll take all night, believe it or not. Working you is hardly working. Doubtful the Lord will heed any prayers I’ve left in me after this weekend.

[ Kill him? Of course not. Keep his attention? Absolutely. ]

All night? Do you intend to exhaust me Sir?

You're goddamn right I do. Are you free the weekend or do I have to decide what I'm to do with you within an evening?

[ Yep, Tom is not going to be moving from his desk for a little while, not unless he wants anyone to see that he's most definitely getting hard at work. ]

I can be, Sir. You've got all the time in the world to do what needs doing.

[ Suddenly Francis is feeling the urge to usher the nearest petty officer into bringing him tea. Something about the frustration. ]

About what a man wants rather than what he needs.

Whatever my captain wants he gets.

If that's true then you'd best bring your captain tea straight away.

[ erm. Difficult at the moment. ]

As much as I begrudge disobeying orders sir, now might not be the best time. Thinking about being at your service all weekend with whatever at all you've got planned for me's gotten me in a bit of a state sir

Wouldn't want to attract suspicion.

No. Perhaps not. But you’d do best to not make promises you can’t immediately keep, especially to a superior officer.

[ Anger? No, frustration. Francis’ mortal enemy. ]

Of course Sir, I'll keep that in mind for the future.

I fully intend to keep all of my promises, time permitting.

You damn well will keep these promises. And I don’t just mean the tea.

No time to lounge in the Navy, lad. That’s for off-duty hours.

Yes sir, in nothing but an apron and on my knees as promised, Sir. For as long as you want me Sir.

I wouldn't dream of lounging Sir, off-duty or on.

Get tired on your knees, won’t you? I’ve a better place for you to sit that isn’t on the floor. I find you sitting on my lap to be much more comfortable for us both.

Dutiful officer, you are. You’ll be promoted with an attitude like that.

I would like that very much sir, though I've no complaints about the floor. Wherever I can best serve you sir.

That's very kind Sir.

I am very aware of your usage of the word “serve,” and I am appreciating it in different ways now, you know.

Tell me what you would like from me. There must be something I can do to please you too beyond telling you where I want you.

I mean serve in every way there is Sir. And however you would like it to mean.

[ It's been a nice long while since he's been asked what he would like. He smiles, even though he's at his desk and should absolutely be focused elsewhere. ]

Making sure that you're comfortable, happy and satisfied is what would please me most.

[ There's a part of Francis that understands, that can see what Thomas must get out of this. The pleasure in pleasing someone else is one unlike any other. But then he quickly hits a wall somewhere in his mind, where the phrase quid pro quo flashes at him in neon. ]

Is this how it works for you? That's all that pleases you?

That's not all that pleases me, I am still human after all.

I don't enjoy putting myself first is all. I don't find that exciting or interesting.

[ When he mowed down his half of the room of Bertinelli's, Victor Zsasz only stopped to catch a breath, and to count. That was six that were his shots, six little birds whom he would scratch into his chest with the rest of his collection. He watched as the life left their eyes, and smiled.

They say that if you do a job that you love, that you don't work a day in your life. He loves that feeling watching them die more than he's loved anything, but only in that it's the least muted feeling he's got, the spark in the void. Being paid helps, work that makes him feel alive is still work. Galante had paid them each half right there, and given them their pick of something nice from the house, and told them that they'd get the rest courtesy of Roman Sionis at his club that night. That fancy son of a bitch had planned the whole thing to go down the same day as the grand opening of his new club, and he was throwing a party.

Zsasz walked out of that house with a gaudy gold mirror under one arm and one of their orchids in the other, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He took them back to his apartment, a bare bones place that he didn't care to decorate, and made sure to cut six lines into his chest and bandage them up in that mirror, propped up in a chair against the wall.

He didn't show up at the Black Mask Club on time, and he didn't use the front door. He'd cleaned himself up, thrown on some clean clothes, but didn't make a big deal about it. Blades in easy to reach places on his person, a gun in the back of his pants, because the thing was, only getting paid half and then being invited to a party? Sounded like a way to clean the board and take out the hit men. He'd done a few jobs for Sionis over the last few months, and more for Galante in the last couple of years, but for all the reputation he was building up there was always some smug fuck trying to keep his ass clean, no matter the cost. So Zsasz came in the back, skulked into the corner, waited for a firefight.

Turns out it was actually a party, a night club opening, and he got paid as he was promised. He hadn't done parties since before he'd started his life over, but he definitely wasn't going to turn down good whiskey and lines of coke he didn't have to pay for. He took his money, did his lines, and watches from a booth as the club promoters and night life socialites of Gotham poured in, completely fucking blind to the blood on the hands that opened that door. He watched them dance and mingle, and he watched Roman Fucking Sionis.

Roman Sionis who he'd met a total of twice before this, who flitted about like a moth to a disco ball, whose charming smile didn't meet his eyes for a goddamn second. Roman Sionis who had the means to buy out Galante and the balls to take out the Bertinelli's but had only just opened his first club. Roman Sionis who vibrated with manic fucking energy that Zsasz couldn't stop watching, whose eyes he couldn't stop meeting through the night.

If someone asked him how he'd ended up in Sionis' penthouse at three in the morning looking at antiques, he wouldn't actually be able to answer. He'd had a lot to drink, and a lot of fucking coke, and predicting what Sionis was going to do at any moment seemed like a near impossible task at this point. ]

Edited 2020-04-01 00:23 (UTC)

[It had been one hell of a time, figuring out what to wear for his club's grand opening. Roman waffled over the decision for weeks. It needed to be something grand, something expensive, but not something gaudy or tacky. Eye-catching, but not too flashy. Something that would not just look good on him, but accentuate the club's decor, get people associating its color scheme with his beautiful face and outgoing personality.

He'd had something custom-ordered, but hated it by the time it arrived. Then he'd picked something from a local boutique, which he changed his mind about the second his driver pulled into his personal spot out back. By the time the day of the Bertinelli job rolled around, he'd gone through over 10 possibilities, eliminating some by ripping them apart with his bare hands, and others by throwing both them and the closest useless henchman into a fire.

Perfection was such hard work.

At last, though, at long last, Roman decided on something perfect: a deep blood-red suit inlaid with intricate flower patterns made out of flawless gold leaf. Under that, a midnight black button-up, top two buttons undone, and no tie. Dark and mysterious, but sexy and easy-going. Shiny enough to shimmer under the club's lighting, to make him stand out against the crowd.

While Galante and his crew were out ending the Bertinelli line, Roman was working on his face. Cleanser. Toner. Antioxidants -- he got the call, the "It's been done." Eye cream. Spot treatment. Moisturizer, and a bodyguard knocking on his door to tell him that guests were lining up around the block.

He finished it all off with a little bit of eyeliner and mascara. Just a touch of golden glitter through his lashes, not enough to look caked-on or intentional, just enough that people's eyes would have no choice but to follow the sparkle, keep their attention on him, subconscious or otherwise.

One last look in the mirror gave him the confidence he needed to saunter downstairs and start the party. And oh, what a fucking party it turned out to be.

Truthfully, the first few hours were a bit of a blur. The club filled up fast, packed with socialites and other players in Gotham's underground scene that Roman was dying to talk to. Alcohol flowed freely, and drugs right along with it. Every table was a crowded, writhing mass of people leaning over each other to dance and drink and shoot eyes at each other, scope out who was worth a fight or a fuck.

Roman made it a point to scrutinize everyone in his club. He memorized names, matched them to faces, started calculating who he'd need to make nice with and who he could cut out of the picture without much trouble. And in between that, he drank. Martinis. Cocktails. Plenty of shots. Roman wasn't a heavy drug user -- unless you count the drugs that don't make your nose bleed and your skin turn into cheap leather -- but even he couldn't resist snorting a few lines of the pure Colombian shit that was being passed around.

So as far as the details go? He's not 100% sure how they got here. He doesn't remember burning a whole night in the club, shouting and laughing and darting around with an energy he hasn't felt in ages. He doesn't remember making the trek back up to his penthouse. He doesn't remember dragging the scary-looking platinum blond mercenary from the Bertinelli job up with him, either.

But he does remember where he got the decorations scattered all around his apartment. With one arm around the blond's shoulders, and the other outstretched, he points to a long, dark mask with animal horns hanging from the wall. Two fingers gesture to the mask, and the other three stay wrapped around his half-full scotch glass.]

This one here's called a Yohure mask. I got it in Côte d'Ivoire. The native people there wear these to funerals, especially ones that threaten to upset the social order... They have a ritual, you know, where they wear these masks and have a celebration before the funeral. Resets the spiritual energy. Puts things back into balance.

[The similarities to his own situation aren't lost on him. This is a new beginning. A fresh start, without the Bertinellis in the way. A purification of Gotham's equilibrium. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a drink, hand tight on Zsasz's shoulder.]

[ Watching Roman talk his way through his penthouse is fascinating. If he's honest, Victor spends about as much time looking at him as he does looking at his things. He's not that interested in the masks, in the acupuncture models, in any of this junk. He's seen a lot of this sort of stuff before when he was a kid, and collecting antiques and oddities is old hat. That's not what's impressive, Roman is.

Victor knows exactly what a 3 AM invitation to a penthouse means. He could have turned it down, but he didn't. He leaned in to Roman's chaos because he actually wanted to see where it would go. He knows what having his shoulder squeezed means, and he should find a way to reject it. Normally he wouldn't be interested but somehow, he thinks maybe, he might be this time. Wild.

It might be the drugs, or how thin the line between life and death that he walks is, but he he just wants to see what happens next.

So Victor nods along to Roman's explanations like he gives a shit. ]

So what're they celebrating, the part where the order's been disrupted or that they can put it back together?

Putting it back together, shuffling the dearly departed on to the next life... [Roman shrugs.] Just a rowdy funeral, if you ask me. But I do find it interesting that the Yohure believe women shouldn't so much as look at one of these masks; makes their womb barren or some nonsense like that.

[It's clear by his tone just how much stock he puts in this foreign culture's traditions, but he doesn't bring it up just to show off his West African trivia. There's a subtle second meaning behind it, one he has a feeling Zsasz will pick up on; a mask that women shouldn't look at, from a culture that excludes them from important celebrations, hanging on the wall in the hallway leading up to his bedroom. It's not exactly a coincidence, though it can be brushed off as one just in case he ever misreads someone who he brings back to his penthouse.

He hopes he hasn't misread this one, though. He fixes Zsasz with a smile, eyes flicking down to his lips before they land on his dark, enigmatic eyes.]

Isn't that neat? [Again, he gives Zsasz's shoulder a squeeze.]

[ Victor's no idiot. Far from it, though he doesn't fight the perception. It helps that people think he's a violently psychotic without any rhyme or reason behind it but bloodlust. There's that, but no. He's no idiot.

If he wanted to just fuck Roman, he would be able to take what he wanted from the hints being all but thrown at him. If he wanted to kill him it would be even easier, alone and in an intimate setting at an odd hour. He doesn't want to kill him though, and maybe he actually does want to have sex with his bosses boss.

It's not so simple though. What he wants, what he really wants, is to keep seeing him live.

So he acts like he doesn't notice Roman looking at his lips, but he doesn't pull away. He leans in like it might just be a drunken sway, though he's not so drunk that he doesn't know what he's doing. ]

Yeah, it's neat. Any chick that wanders up here though, barren's the least of their problems.

[ He makes eye contact and holds it, because he wants to see the cogs moving, to see what leap Roman makes. ]

[It's hard for Roman to hold eye contact. He wants to keep looking at Victor's lips, so plump and pink and tempting. He's been fixated on them all fucking night. But those eyes are equally enchanting, and it's a thrill to look someone like Victor Zsasz in the eye. It's a thrill to have him up here, in his penthouse, leaving himself vulnerable.

But he's in the mood for thrills tonight. He just mowed down the fucking Bertinellis, baby, he's on top of the goddamn world.

So he has to laugh at Victor's little remark. Throws his head back, moves his hand down a few inches so he can squeeze Victor's bicep.]

Oh, Mr. Zsasz. You know me so well already. [This time, when he looks down at Victor's lips, he licks his own.] Good thing you're not a "chick," isn't it...?

Mhm.

[ He doesn't move an inch, stock still as he watches Roman work. ]

You gonna take what you want or what?

[Well, that's as good a confirmation as any.

The only warning Zsasz gets is the way Roman's eyes darken, and then he pounces, lifting his hand to grab the back of Zsasz's neck so he can pull him into a violent kiss.]

[ Their teeth clash together and Zsasz leans into it. He wants to feel the ache in his bones. For a long moment he's being kissed with his hands still in his pocket like he doesn't get a damn, his foot twisting back and forth like a kid with an attention deficit. It's just the drugs and the drink. He's got no delusion that he's gonna be in any way in charge of this, until he is in charge, until he has a knife to Roman's neck and he watches the life leave his eyes.

That's not for now though. Later. In a few hours. For now he just grins into the kiss and hopes his lip bleeds. ]

[Roman will make him bleed, alright. He's hungry with his affections, drunk and high enough that he doesn't give a shit about the taste of blood that spreads over his tongue after a few particularly hard nips. Likes it, even. His guilty little pleasure.

Turning to face Zsasz more fully, he pulls him close, one hand on the back of his head, other arm wrapped around his shoulders to keep him steady. He shamelessly grinds their bodies together, desperate to feel someone's touch -- Zsasz's touch, dangerous and unpredictable.]

[ Zsasz doesn't get hard quickly. The bite's nice, the taste of his own blood makes him interested, but it takes more than that to get him really going.

The point isn't being into it himself though, the point is that Roman's energy is aggressively contagious. His hands finally slip out of his pockets to hold loosely onto Roman's belt loops, holding his hips close even though he's not hard. He can feel Roman's cock against his thigh though, and that's thrilling enough. When he breaks the kiss he licks up the blood that lingers on Roman's lip. ]

What's the plan, boss?

[God, it sends a shiver down Roman's spine to hear this dangerous man call him boss. He's got such a gruff, sexy voice, and it makes Roman even quicker to harden in his overpriced slacks.]

The plan is, we're gonna go to my bedroom. [He cups Zsasz's cheek, brushing their lips together with every syllable.] You're gonna get naked and show me your cock. Maybe, maybe, if I like it, we'll do some more... [He smiles, "sweetness" dripping with arsenic. He loves nothing more than this feeling of power, especially now.] 'Kay?

[ Zsasz grins, chuckles behind his teeth. ]

Kay.

[ He licks the blood off of his own lips, off from the inside of his bottom lip, running the tip of his tongue along the small tear in his skin where Roman's teeth pulled. ]

Lead the way.

open post | 6 | kink

⊗ for muggsy

➤➤➤ Mairon

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⏵ for bathrobed

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⏵for Deadandgone

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a whole new world dot mp3

Hold your breath it gets better xoxo

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➤➤➤For Roman Sionis

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