#quil

First time doing a digital Oc, comic! I think I did better with this second one since you can read it better.. I’ve had the “script” for this comic since 2023 and finally decided to do something with it lol

"This one?" Quil asks softly, taking the book from his hands. They treat it with a reverence that makes something hot coil down his spine. Spite, too, growls appreciatively, pressed heavy against his shoulder as he joins in the near painful wait for Quil's judgement. "We haven't read this one before, have we, Lucanis?"

"No. We haven't." He swallows heavily, heat already beginning to fill his cheeks. Quil's brows furrow, just slightly, and they cock their head. Waiting, patiently, to see if he will fold.

And he always folds to them.

"It was—it was one of my favorites, before…before." He clears his throat, resisting the urge to fidget. "Spite was curious about it."

"Really?" They blink, surprised. "And what was Spite curious about, I wonder?" A meaner grin, eyes scanning his face slow and calculated. "Does it have something to do with why you're so nervous, Lucanis?"

"Caught! You." Spite crows, laughing. "Tell! Quil. No. Let. ME. Tell Quil. I want. To tell them. About the book."

You will give the entire thing away, he thinks derisively, trying to get his jaw to work from despite Spite's insistent, grabbing hands. We are barely surviving this conversation.

"WE?" Spite scoffs, falling back with a shove hard enough that he actually stumbles forward. "I can. Survive. Can you?"

"Are you two alright?" Quil asks, raising a hand to try and muffle their laughter. "Shall I leave? It seems like you're having a very serious discussion."

"No!" Spite actually pushes to the front; uses the momentum from the shove he has not fully recovered from to push towards Quil on the chaise, reaching out to take them in hand. They laugh, reaching out to grab his forearms to steady him. "No leaving. Stay."

"I'll stay," they promise, soft. "Are you teasing him, Spite?"

"Yes." Spite grins with all his teeth. "But only because. Lucanis is. A coward!"

"Is that right?" They let their hands wander a little lower, thumbs closing in on a pulse point. "And you aren't a coward, are you, Spite?"

"No. I know. What we want."

"And what do the two of you want, I wonder?" Their expression softens, just a little; color flooding their cheeks, ears twitching. The beginnings of their submission, of a desire to please, that has heat thudding through his veins. "Will you tell me, please?"

Spite groans, leaning forward to press the words into their neck. Bringing a hand up to tangle in their hair, inhaling deep. "We want. You to read to us. Make us. Feel good. Lucanis. Picked. His favorites. And so. Did I."

When did you do that? He thinks wildly. Spite simply chuckles, nuzzling against Quil's neck for a moment longer before he slinks back. Of course he would force him to deal with the aftermath, nearly within Quil's lap. Already flushed and aching, body immediately tensing as their hands wander up to his shoulders. They bear their throat further, fingers curling in his hair. "Is that what you want, Master Dellamorte?" They ask, breathy, and he shudders.

Yes, he wants this. He always wants this with them. But…but he has find himself wanting to try something else. To find himself on the receiving end of such affection. To see what his love would look like if they deigned to be cruel, or sharp, or dominant. To feel what it would be like to be crushed underfoot by a boot owned by someone who loved him. To understand what it is they feel when he does the same for them. To submit. Willingly. To be taken care of. To have desires that are not shamed, and are instead held with care.

He knows they would take care of him in this way. If only he could find the courage to ask!

Instead, he has a book, dog-eared and pen-marked, full of the desires he is too afraid to say aloud.

"Lucanis?" Quil says, pulling back, and he realizes he has been silent too long. Too stiff. They settle back upon the chaise, reaching up to take his face within their hands. "Are you alright? We don't have to do anything."

"I know," he says, throat tight. "I know, paloma."

"We can talk about it, too. We should, if you're upset."

"You are—so good to me," he says wetly. "So good."

"You give yourself too little credit," they counter. "You are just as good to me, Lucanis."

Good makes him shudder, fingers flexing. A visceral reaction, unable to be hidden. Spite curls heavy at the base of his spine, basking in the heat. Quil hums, thumb sweeping along his cheek. Glances towards the book abandoned on the chaise, and hums. "You've had a bit of a pattern in your reading choices this week, Lucanis. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

I was hoping you would, he nearly says, but bites it back. Instead, he shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Braces for their judgement as they put the pieces together. "Do you have something you want to ask me, Lucanis?" He nods, once, and they hum. "You know, Lucanis, these things don't have to just be things we read about. If you see something you like in them—you're more than happy to tell me what it is." They pause, letting the words settle into his shoulders. "Look at me, please?"

He does. They smile, gentle, but there's something in their eyes that makes him want to straighten to attention. Makes sparks prick along his spine, Spite rising up to peer and assess the threat that his heart thudding within his chest. "I want you to kneel here, Lucanis," they say, tilting their head in the direction of their feet. "And when you are ready, I want you to be a good boy and tell me what you want. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," he says, breathless. "I can."

"Dellamortes. Do not. Kneel." Spite says within his ear. A challenge, he thinks. A goad. And the Demon is right. Dellamortes don't kneel. Certainly not the ones who belong to Caterina Dellamorte. Not ones who are expected to be First Talon. Not ones who bear the mantle of Demon of Vyrantium upon their back.

But here, he is not a man who belongs to Caterina Dellamorte any more.

He settles at their feet in a motion that is not fluid. It is clumsy in his desperation to please. In his fear that he will do as they have asked and be cast aside for it. Because he knows who they expect him to be—he knows who he has been for them. And to ask for something different—to dare and ruin what is already good—perhaps he should ask Quil to end him now. Let him live with the memory of their sweetness, their kindness, before he dared to ruin it all.

Their eyes go wide, legs spreading to accommodate him. Nodding, once, when his trembling hands reach out to rest upon their thighs. "I want this," he admits, forcing himself to meet their gaze. "Please…" Hesitation, as he is not sure what sort of title they would want. If they would even allow him to give them one.

"Good boy," they praise, reaching out to card through his hair. "Good boy. Be still, Lucanis."

He can scarcely breathe as they stretch, settling one foot upon his thigh. The other they raise up and bring to his shoulder, heel pressing slightly into his back. "You can come closer, sweetheart," they encourage. "Hands on your thighs or the chaise. Or my ankle, I suppose, since you've been good." They laugh, not cruelly, when one of his hands immediately finds it, thumb stroking along the bone. "Eager thing. How long have you had this book, Lucanis?"

"Since I was seventeen."

They flip it open, thumbing through the pages. Pause on a page he has dog-eared, humming softly as they scan it. "And your personal additions? How long have those been there?"

He ducks his head, feeling chastised. Ashamed. The words don't immediately come, and they press their heel against his thigh. He groans, shuddering, and distinctly remembers that there had been a scene like this in a book they had read last week. "You are—"

"You liked that scene quite a bit, Lucanis," they tease, applying more pressure. "You were quiet noisy during it. I was worried the famed Demon of Vyrantium was about to meet his end at the hand of a piece of erotica. And who would have taken you for a blushing virgin, Lucanis? You certainly have most people fooled. But that isn't the case, is it, sweetheart? Just look at all these notes—you're no better than an Aranai whore, are you, Lucanis?"

He groans, head bowing. Shuddering in how deeply their words affect him. It is one thing to hear them read text from such novels aloud—it is another entirely to be on the receiving end. To feel the heat of their gaze, their body; to be knelt in supplication so that they may take this willingly. His entire body feels alight, heart thudding within his chest. Head swimming, because if this is how they perform when he has not even explicitly given them things he would like to see—he does not know how he is going to last.

"Lucanis," they chide, heel tapping against his shoulder. "I asked you a question. I expect an answer."

"I—I—mierda, I—yes?" He blinks up at them, unsure. To be wholly honest, he does not even fully remember what the question was. He's drowning in his desires, and he is unsure if he wants to be brought back to shore.

"Yes?" They grin, sharp "You're no better than a whore, Lucanis?"

Mierda, the trouble he and his mouth get into. He splutters, sure he is flushed scarlet. They laugh, soft. "Am I being unfair, Lucanis?"

"Yes," he agrees, and then shrinks. Perhaps it is not his place to be so bold.

"Do you want me to stop?" They ask, genuine.

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head. "No. I do not— I want to keep going, please." He takes a steadying breath before adding, "May I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything you need to, Lucanis. We're learning what kind of submission you like, tonight. It's fine if you give me a little bite. I'm not going to punish you for anything that happens tonight. And I'm only going to know what you like if you're a good boy and talk to me. So, Lucanis, unless I explicitly tell you otherwise, you are allowed to speak to me at any point tonight. To ask me for anything. Especially if you want to stop. And you can tell me to stop at any point. Do you understand?"

His breath catches within his throat. It is this, he thinks, that they seek when they submit to him. The authority. The firm direction. The absolute care. He nods, shaken, and then forces his mouth to work. "Yes. Yes, I understand. Do you want a title? How do you wish for me to call you?"

"Don't call me 'Master,' please," they say immediately, and he nods. Leans forward to press a kiss to their thigh, and groans when they raise their other leg to find his shoulder. His hands slide under, thumbs kneading. "Sir is…fine?"

"You do enjoy those novels with a prince," he says, pressing closer. He could lean up and kiss them proper, now, if he dared. "Shall I call you, 'My lord,' paloma."

They flush prettily, ears twitching. He grins, sharp, and Spite crows happily. "Spite likes it. He is calling you 'Our prince.' Is that what you want to be, paloma?"

"This is for you—"

"And I will only enjoy it if you are happy, too. Is this something you want?"

"Yes." A swallow, eyes wide. "Yes, Lucanis. I want it."

"Good. Thank you, my lord, for telling me." He leans forward to press a kiss to their stomach, sighing. "May I stay here?"

"You may. Move my legs around your waist. Hold them there. Your mouth may not touch my cock," they add as he begins to comply. He shudders, groaning, and presses his forehead against their stomach. One of their hands finds his hair, and he helps guide them into a more comfortable position. They take a few minutes to settle, and then he hears the book cracked open once again. Their fingers tangling in his hair, heavy at the base of his neck.

He shudders at the feel of their nails upon his scalp, the way they squeeze just slightly whenever he moves. The anticipation is the worst, he thinks. Trusting them to know they will not do something he won't enjoy, but not knowing when it will come. He breathes heavy against their stomach, letting his fingers flex against their thighs as he waits.

There is the sound of a page turning, and he realizes what they are doing. What they want him to ask for. "Will you," he begins, inhaling sharp when they tug at his hair to force his head up. Forcing him to speak clearly. He is not being allowed to hide from them tonight. "Will you read aloud, please, my lord?"