bubblegum bitch

“you’ve already made it?” she could feel her own expression, how it faded for a moment before a wobbling smile found its way back across her lips. she knew tammy meant only honesty by the admission. she wanted to be hopeful all the same. only good memories for recipes. “we could always do something else.” she walked over to her kitchen, took in the ingredients she set out. “there’s always beignets. they’re simple but i think they’re ashton’s favorite.” presuming knowledge, but trying all the same. “then you’re not stuck with it all.”

Breathe. Text. Breathe again. She just had to stick to that until she was able to calm her nerves. It wasn’t until she got to the third reply with Ash did she realize her hands were trembling, a rush of adrenaline spiking her blood and nerves, unable to control it. She hated that about herself, body a vessel for whatever emotional reaction dictated, helpless to it. Both sets of fingers held to her phone like a lifeline, forgetting when she had let go of Tammy, warmed by his arm as she lifted her head up to see him.

“It… prob should be…” she muttered, missing any defense. “Do you think this is illegal?” she suddenly thought aloud with wider eyes before her breath was forced out, even in all its shakiness, last scrap of it tossed out with a shake of the head. No. Let’s not add on any more worries tonight. “It’s uhm… I guess a friend? I got drunk on him and prob scared him,” she admitted too honestly, filter blown. “He says he knows you. Ash? Ashton? Could you like give him a call after the pics?”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. She felt a little better, still feeling her veins vibrating inside of her, but focused on Tammy’s voice, listening to him intently. “Oh. Uhm..” Her eyes closed tightly, thinking back to her art history classes, to the books in Laurie’s museum, how he’d know immediately. “The Virtuvian Man.” That was it. “Can… Can I see?” She could probably stomach it better through the glass versus in the flesh, even if it was the same scene looking back at her, at least she could pretend it was out of reach psychologically. “We can trade so you can talk if you want,” she went on, holding out her phone, coral color bleeding through her glitter case in the offering.

“Mhmm, they might misinterpret it, though.” Not that Tammy had any idea what was going on, only that the ouroboros was the same as that from The Revival. Again, there was that dizzying feeling he’d felt talking to Damion, an inkling that he was standing at a threshold, about to take a step into a world he didn’t understand. “We can call them later.” Worrying about the legality of their actions could come later, when he wasn’t pacing a freezing alley in stiletto heels, taking photos of a dead fucking body. When Joan wasn’t trying to lick Poldark’s cold, corpse toes. “Baby, no -- oh, Ash!” Instantly, Tammy perked up; if there was anyone they needed in this situation, it was a military agent. “Of course, I can call him.”

Tammy snapped one more picture of the words on Poldark’s chest before returning to Zoe; he felt bad leaving her in the lurch, hand returning to her arm by way of reassurance. “Are you sure you want to look?” He tried to check in with her, making sure she wasn’t going to faint or something: vaguely, he thought he should be less numbed to this kind of thing, but he couldn’t dredge up any deeper emotion than vague disgust. “Alright, um -- tell me if it’s too much, okay? You’re not obligated to look.” Handing her his phone, Tammy took hers, flipping through the contacts until he reached Agent Ash, the name bringing a soft smile to his lips.

She remembered seeing a dead person once. It was her grandfather at his wake, dying from natural causes, laid out in a beautiful casket with flowers surrounding him, makeup done to seem approachable as if he was only sleeping. This was nothing like that. What she associated death to be was a romanticized version of it, not this barbaric twist, raw and unbridled in how the life was ripped from the corpse. Poldark was a shell on display, posed in a way that Zoe’s brain could not distinguish immediately, too wrapped up in the blood. If she hadn’t been holding onto Tammy’s arm, her knees would have surely buckled.

Her lips parted, wanting to verbally agree. She could only breathe out before nodding her head. The motion was enough to shake the rest of her into enough action to pull apart her purse to find her phone. “Uhm…” Who to call? 9-1-1? Zoe stared blankly at her phone and then the marks of a pen she had tried to wash off from nights previously still clinging to her skin. No. She couldn’t call the police, not immediately. They would never give her answers. The story would be lost. What would Ampersand say? What would she say to herself looking back on this? She just needed to pull it together.

“I… I might know someone,” she mumbled as her fingers typed quickly, shooting text after text to the recent add to her contacts, drunkenly put in under the name Agent Ash. “Can you… kinda look for me? I’m a little scared I’m going to throw up. I’ll be okay in a minute but… like… is the snake there again?”

Tammy kept an arm around Zoe, knowing she probably had less experience with death than he did. Everything came second to his own death; seeing Poldark’s blood sprayed across the alley, his insides opened, couldn’t hit as deep of a nerve as seeing his own blood spilled on the tarmac, his own life slipping away, inch by agonising inch. If anything, Poldark fucking deserved it. A lot of his clients did: it wasn’t Tammy’s place to judge, but some of the men who came to him were nothing more than bloated worms, believing they had a right to power, a right to a legacy.

He shook himself out of his thoughts, turning back to Zoe as she fumbled with her phone. “Is that someone the police? Because we should probably call the police.” Yet he couldn’t shake his curiosity; the scene looked like it had been set up symbolically, Poldark’s body splayed, arms raised, legs parted. Tammy was more immediately concerned with Zoe, putting supporting hand on her back for a moment, before she asked him to check.

The moment the order was given, he was swift, laying Tammy down gently before finding himself into he kitchen, within a second or two back with the aspirin and a glass of water. “There, maybe start with two,” Ashton softly nudged, medication sometimes takes a bit more to affect them, double dosages, he learnt that the hard way. Ashton snorted at the crass thought, “wow I’m definitely in the wrong line of work then, sign me up.” The irony of having to do some of it anyways for the DIA, whatever they needed him to do. Maybe if all of that pain led to this point, to the fact that on a scientific and medical standpoint they’re ready to safely try it out for Tammy after tinkering with muses like Ashton, maybe it’s worth it. “I’m gonna be honest Tammy, I don’t know,” Ashton sighed, “but we can try, and- I promise I’ll make sure they don’t lay a finger on you on anything else.” He was willing to defy the DIA and take the punishment again, if it would keep him safe.

“That’s definitely something to be admired about, I for one, am a complete saint,” he might look a lil bit Scottish even if he did go ginger, maybe to fit into there if he ever gets shifted to a Edinburgh station, “maybe if I ever get a mission for a Scottish cover.” They’ve trained him like any other regular agent, thousands of international covers to play. “Hmm, I can respect that,” Ashton hummed at the presented premise, and as nice as the thought is, to get into Harvard, to get a proper PhD, to go back to working at NASA, to live a normal life again, “you know I can’t.” Unless there’s some huge surge in muses in Harvard. They knew he was smart enough, they didn’t need him to get any dumb papers. He noticed the gaze towards the mirror and he tried to gently pull him back, “hey.. it’s okay, anyone who tells you you’re not beautiful now is a fuckwad.” Maybe a movie was just the distraction he needed, and Ash purposely in heels, “mm I love a big risk - game on.”

A pitiful moan slid from Tammy’s lips as Ash set him down; despite asking Ash for the painkillers, he was still desperate for the physical comfort, curling in on himself until Ash returned. “Thanks,” he murmured, knocking back the pills without a second thought -- it was a practised movement, a way to make sure he could go from client to client, handling whatever they threw at him. Sliding back into Ash’s lap, he buried his face in the other man’s chest, snuggling into it. “Mmm, you should absolutely come over to the dark side. I bet they’d pay you more.” Tammy barely knew anything about the DIA, but he didn’t trust them. Not when he saw hints of what they’d done to Ash -- if it wouldn’t mean they’d probably never see each other again, he’d try to persuade Ash to leave. If they’d let him. “I know, I know. It’s just -- it’s a bit of hope.” Before becoming a muse, it had just been a matter of saving enough money; now it was about finding a way to make the surgery permanent.

Immediately, Damion made a face, one that put distance to the test in the mental side of life, pushing back against any image Tammy was trying to throw out. “You’re going to keep saying things like that, aren’t you? Also, Heinz? Delicious? Mmm. We have to talk about that later. That part worries me the most.” Centuries of artistic luxury afforded pleasures, and with it came jadedness that somehow didn’t evaporate when his access to funds did. It was a struggle to have a rich soul on a poor budget. “If you’re talking about breaking a bond with someone that wants to get off this merry-go-round, too, yeah. I tried. I’m not ’legit’ enough for suicide,” he explained with quotation marks bending his fingers before eventually being hit with Tammy’s reaction on his scar. It was the crack in the voice that tipped him off. Everything else could have been waved off as teen angst–a late bloomer to the party. “Oh… a car. That’s… something. Yeah,” he went on, voice reining back in on the initial response, doing his best to rewrite it and failing miserably at it. It was not part of his tools of trade. “Died from just that, huh? Pft. From that scratch? Can’t even… tell! Wow. Crazy. That’s internal bleeding for you.”

“Wrong,” he began to correct, a voice low enough to reverberate through the air until hitting Tammy’s eardrums. “It’s you that would prefer ignorance over insight.” Glass twisted against sensitive nerves, not in a sharp wrenching, but in a movement akin to stroking against the flesh. Pleasure was intertwined with pain, watching how it riddled the muse’s eyes as the point of ecstasy was circled, hairline cut drawing blood to soak it in. “Unfortunately,” his tone buoyed to the surface again before slicing, cutting, removing the same swollen flesh that didn’t coincide with a male mentality, “there’s nothing that you provide that isn’t easily read.”

By now, Sebastian’s own hand was stained red, a vibrant pigment reserved for the immortal beings. His free hand drew up, fitting to the waist, thumb at the abdomen, pressing in, allowing the scarred skin to envelope the edge of the digit with an illusion to excess. “It must take a toll on the psyche to be desperate for acceptance from those that continuously deny it,” he spoke, listening to every word, every inflection, even when it appeared as though he would be preoccupied. “Whose disappointment stings more? The one who could have aborted you or the one that now regrets not demanding it?”

Damn him, even Sebastian’s voice was enough to raise goosebumps of arousal across Tammy’s skin; it was the kind that reverberated in your bones, in your soul, that sounded commanding even in a whisper. That, mingled with the pain meant Tammy was almost dizzy, breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The heat of blood down his legs was nothing compared to the heat in his stomach; he didn’t notice what Sebastian was doing with the knife until it was too late, a burst of pain tearing a scream from him as he realised what had been excised. “Bastard -” he choked out, trying to close his legs for his clients’ sake, if not his. 

“Sure. You’re like Heinz ketchup. Name brand all the way,” Damion humored dryly, supportive to an extent, unwilling to dive further beyond that for whatever remained. He wasn’t going to lie and say that Tammy was like his child, barely had remembered him without being coaxed into remembering the real details of when they had met, but he had to admit finding out a kid you knew had gone into prostitution wasn’t a great feeling. “My last bond was ten years ago. Do the math, kiddo. That’s about ninety or so years left on the clock. Would rather fucking not. I don’t care a lot for the aesthetic value here.” Dignity. Who’s she? The only criteria that came to his death was to be as low in pain as possible, which typically required him to do it by himself, not trusting anyone these days to not give a full service in torture. He wanted to keep his pain tolerance exactly where it was, not pushing any limits. Even seeing Tammy’s scar made his face turn aghast, turning away with a gaping mouth and squinting eyes. “Jesus Christ! The fuck happened to you! Did you go through a damn shredder? Lord, what the Hell is that?”

The hand on her arm brought her eyes back to Tammy, glistening more than a moment before. It was too easy to cry, nervous energy bringing it out of her, bubbling just beneath that attention starved skin. She sucked in a breath, pushed it aside, offering a thankful smile for even the small gesture of noticing. It would be nothing in comparison to what was awaiting them, anyways.

Her own hand still stayed on his elbow, stepping closer to the scene until it was able to come into view, enough for the brain to finally register that this was not a new display of modern art for the streets. It was a statement. One in dripping blood from the neck, wrists, ankles, dangling against a wall and sprawled out for the world to view. Her shriek was stifled in her chest, eyes wide, hand clutching to her new friend. A prickling feeling ravaged her skin, cementing her in fright before weakened with illness. Eyes had to look away, at least for a moment as she took a shaky breath.

“That’s…” her head felt dizzy, death taking its toll on the stomach. She shut her eyes tight, swallowing to take some edge off before sickly finishing her words. “Poldark.”

Something about the way she looked at him told Tammy few people had paid Zoe that kind of attention, or even done her the courtesy of noticing when she needed comfort. It stirred something fiercely protective in his chest, hand lingering on her arm for a little longer than necessary, a wordless confirmation that he saw her, and he was there if she needed him.

The scene in the alleyway had an almost magnetic pull, drawing them both closer; Tammy was numb to it, still believing somewhere in his mind it was just a set, just something someone had created to elicit a reaction, like what he did on camera. Even seeing the ouroboros, the blood, the dead man’s face twisted in a mask of terror -- it was only when he felt Zoe clutch his arm that he realised what he should be feeling. Shock, disgust, something more than dull curiosity. He guided her away from the body almost on autopilot, remembering as an afterthought that this wasn’t the type of thing most people could stomach.

@tammy-vanderbilt​

10 am on the dot, ingredients already measured out. it was no matter that she’d been up since 6, cleaning what little there was. organizing as though the brownstone wasn’t already spotless. there were never guests, not really. there was only ever ashton. and now tammy. steps to the positive. “i know you’re still learning but—have you ever heard of a hummingbird cake?” a classic as far as she was concerned. one of the few recipes that were ingrained in every little girl, should they want to grow up and marry into a nice house. “it’s not so bad.”  she wrung her hands, tried her best not to stutter. “i’ll show you.”

For once, Tammy was dressed halfway casually, in a patterned button-up and jeans. Without clients to impress, he could afford to relax a little -- though he still arrived at Ophelia’s brownstone at precisely 10am, Joan’s lead twisted around his wrist. “Oh -- I think I might’ve made it once or twice with my mother.” He trailed off, leaning down to unclip Joan’s lead so Ophelia didn’t have to see how his face fell. “But she wasn’t nearly as good a baker as you are.” Her nerves were obvious; he’d decided almost as soon as they were more than acquaintances that he’d have to be the confidence for the both of them. “I promise I won’t burn the kitchen down.”

“Okay, no laughing today,” the warning was almost an order, gently requested, as he didn’t know what else to do but rub his back over it goes away. “Do you want to take any aspirin or something? Get you any pain killers?” If that could even help at all, but Ashton thought it was worth asking. “Oh wow, really? Maybe I should start charging too, what are the rates on that?” Somehow they both just end up weirdly poking at the abs before he swatted his hand away. “We’re all challenges to them,” Ashton was their biggest at the time, when the government started really grasping the concept of muses, when they decided they could make their own with him. The only comfort he has if they hear of Tammy’s request, that they’ve changed since the 60s, and they’d be kinder. It’s all he could hope. 

“Ha! I could never pull it off like you do, I’d look weird ginger.” The most he had dyed for a mission was dark chestnut brown and nothing more. He’s supposed to blend in most of the time not stand out. “What a dick,” he scoffed, “would’ve loved to go to Harvard. Sounds like a dumb reason to go to it though, for a boy.” At his core he knew he might’ve made it, if he went completely different paths. Tammy never had to try with them, Ashton swore by his word that these weren’t regular client hours, no dressing up, no acting, no kinks, just whatever he wanted it to be, however he was feeling that day. “You never have to be, you don’t ever have to try, or give anything at all, not with me.” Ashton hammered it home once more, firm with his reminder, “plus you’re already entertaining enough yourself. And this movie better be 10/10, if I like it, I’ll wear those heels, five minutes tops.”

Tammy almost objected, cut off at the last minute by the pain, and the sudden tenderness of Ash rubbing his back. He fell back against him, giving a defeated little nod. “They’re on the counter --” he gestured vaguely, hardly remembering whether he’d already taken any. If he had, they hadn’t helped. “Depends what other services you’ll be providing. Because I’d happily let you crush me between your thighs as well.” It was an easy joke to settle into, a little familiar warmth to take the edge off the pain. “But -- they could do it, right?” It was a desperate hope, a fluttering thing that was just asking to be crushed underfoot, but he had to hold onto it. His chrysalis, a promise of recreation.

“Yeah… I don’t want to buy…” he replied to the joke, voice pitched upward at the tail-end as his eyes squinted before relaxing a little. “It’s a me thing. Not a you thing. Well. More of a we thing. Let’s say that.” You could spend a lifetime alone on what a 500 year-old should morally be allowed to be attracted to when it came to age-range, but at the end of the day Damion could feel it wasn’t with Tammy, no matter whatever was up his sleeve, even teasingly so. There were some lines that were meant not to be crossed, and that was one of them. In comparison, death was easier to talk about. It always was for him, treating it like it was part of his daily routine, an endless quest into finding the thing that would put an stop to all this. “Look, I know this might be hard to hear because you’re young and society is in that whole ‘suicide prevention’ phase right now. Trust me, I worked at a hotline for a day. Wasn’t all that copacetic. The point is sometimes you just want to die, and not even in a romantic way. I’d take a bullet behind a Denny’s at 3 in the morn. Whatever does the trick, you feel me?” And maybe his feelings did have something to do with his last wife, a small portion bearing the responsibility, but it was all a moot point when Damion just couldn’t die regardless of what or who was being pinned down as the reason. “Sure, you keep me updated on that,” he went on before pausing, blankly replaying the words before looking at him again, eying him for a moment as the gears turned in his mind, only to have his shoulders sag. “Fuck… You’re a Muse, too, aren’t you?”

She drew her purse closer to her, force of habit towards the shadows of the streets of New York. Where she was from wasn’t much better, one state away in New Jersey, giving her plenty of practice in what one should and shouldn’t do. The night belonged to the latter, but she pushed on, just thankful to have Tammy shepherd her. There was a laugh given, as lukewarm as the attempt to lighten the situation, appreciated but mind distracted, brought to the center at the question posed. “Oh.” Her first instinct was to lie, or at least buy more time, and she couldn’t even explain why. Shame? As terrible as that was? Before she knew it, her lip was being bitten, her body seeming to shrink even more on itself. “She’s… my sister. Older sister. Her name is Olivia. So, it’s not like a stalking ex situation. I’m straight, anyways, so!” Zoe began playing with her fingernails, chipping pieces of the polish off around the edge of her thumb when her words went sideways, downplaying her worry. “I can’t ever tell her to do anything, you know! That’s the older sister vibe for you!” she went on with a crooked laugh, one that veered off from her mouth, more shavings from her thumbnail following until her head lifted up. A second look was taken to an alley passed, steps slowing to a stop before she put her hand on Tammy’s elbow with a soft tug. “That’s not… like a streetlamp, is it? Kinda bright.”

Tammy kept hurrying along, anxious not to stop for too long in the dark backstreets, despite the protests of his feet from wearing heels all night. He kept glancing behind to make sure Zoe was alright, noticing the effect his question had on her. Sister -- he nodded gently, wondering why she was so reluctant to say that. Perhaps just admitting that someone you loved so much had ended up like that was too hard to even say. The closest person he had to a sibling was Elliot, and just thinking of losing him, seeing him in an alley like he’d seen that girl, made his stomach twist with dull worry. “Hey --” Comforting people genuinely was hardly Tammy’s strong suit, but he put a hand on her arm, trying to to calm her from the nervous little spiral she’d worked herself into. He wished he had some promise of closure, of finding her, but he knew all they were probably going to see was an empty alleyway, possibly populated by some addicts.

“Sorry, he’s a fucking asshole, please and thank you,” a chuckle rumbled in his throat, but it all dissipated the moment Tammy tried to laugh, murmuring a sincere sorry this time, lightly pulling him in further as if it’d pull him away from the pain. “I was once much fiestier,” he rolled his eyes at the change of pace, “oh yeah, you could wash clothes on these,” poking at the muscles that have been tortured into hardened steel just so he could feel a pain that he had control over. Ashton pondered for awhile, wanting to properly think through his list of contacts, muse doctors that do it for the science and well being, even if some of those names dip into DIA territory. “There might be some research and trials going into it, but I think they’d like a challenge,” Ashton started his whole muse life with scientists and doctors and labs and even under those circumstances, there were some amazing people along the way. “Whatever that can help you feel more like you.”

Ash hummed in disapproval at the suggestion, “nah, I actually look good in blonde. I’m not even sure what other color would work.” He frowned turning his attention to the screen, watching the thousands and thousands of content that figuratively and literally flew by him, he couldn’t recognise any of it, “so.. she had a newfound purpose in law after giving up on love? Or is she trying to sue him for revenge?” It sounded pretty entertaining. “Sometimes?” Ash prompted but he glanced to the pain showing on his face, and let it go, “okay, that’s okay. These few hours are yours more than it is mine.” A reminder, that whatever the DIA is paying for this, it’s Ashton buying in time for Tammy to rest, to do whatever he wanted to do, maybe in a sense, to claim back his own time.

Tammy tried to laugh again, but all that came out was another strangled gasp of pain; any kind of movement of his core muscles sent white-hot agony spreading through the hollow. He brushed off the apology, though -- thinking about it made it worse, only hammered home the inevitable truth that it was growing back. “I’d happily lick whipped cream off those, you know.” Poking at Ash’s abs, Tammy was beginning to drift off into the the silence. “Oh, am I a challenge now?” Despite the joke, he perked up almost imperceptibly. It was a chance, something to cling to and set his sights on: a second metamorphosis.

BASICS ―

full name: tammy vanderbilt 

birthday: 15 july

age: 24 (for the forseeable future)

zodiac sign: cancer

religion: raised capitalist catholic; atheist

religious level (1-10): 0

birthplace: florence, italy

current residence: new york, usa

height: 5′ 1

hair colour: ginger

eye colour: blue

sexuality: bisexual

love/romantic preference: biromantic

relationship status: single

languages known: english, conversational italian

DETAILS ―

car: vintage white mercedes convertible

phone: iphone 11

music genres: billie eilish, chloe moriondo, cavetown, retro music eg. billy joel & neil diamond

wardrobe: fur wraps, ruffled shirts, stiletto heels, oversized jumpers, patterned shirts

estimated net worth: not enough

ransom value: you can’t afford it

BLOODLINES + CONNECTIONS ―

alexander vanderbilt ― father

clementine vanderbilt ― mother

elliot rothschild ― best friend favourite person in the whole wide world

anthony funke ― adopted father

damion killgrave ― deadbeat adopted dad

ashton ryder ― friend, client

ophelia james ― friend, baking buddy

zoe marshall ― friend, needs protecting

sebastian steele ― surgeon and ‘client’

LEVELS ―

drinking: 4

swearing: 4

smoking status: 1; tried it a few times, but never got into it

drugs: 2; just at the occasional party!

cooking proficiency: 6

intelligence: 8

emotional/social intelligence: 9; the classic glitzy, charming socialite, but he’s shit when it comes to his own emotions

creativity: 10 when it comes to nsfw situations/fashion, a solid 5 otherwise

“oh—” she glanced around, wondering if anyone had heard the joke. still forever a small town southerner it seemed; but when no one turned around with an offensive stare she smiled. “just come by when you wake up.” she didn’t know what time was too over-bearingly early. she woke with the sun, she was still learning that it didn’t mean that everyone else did. “i’m flexible.” which was the nice way of saying that there was simply no other plans for her day. sunday with tammy seemed busy enough. “you’ll probably want to sleep in.”

“Sorry, was that offensive to your Southern sensibilities?” With anyone else it would’ve been a challenge, but for Ophelia it was more of a joke, Tammy’s tone coated with the fake concern his mother had taught him. “Are you sure that won’t be too early?” He knew most people tended to sleep in on a Sunday -- his version of sleeping in was waking up alone, getting to have the early morning to himself for once. Taking Joan for a walk in Central Park, if he managed to wake up early enough. “I’ll drop by around ten, if that suits you -- and would you mind if I brought Joan along? She’s not big enough to get in our way.” Which wouldn’t stop her from trying, but she could be easily placated.

“A fuckwad really,” Ashton grinned as he took it in a different direction. Sebastian always tried to exude that dumb manipulative - or exhilarating - energy and influence on people, very successfully. “He’ll die by my hands if I have anything to say about it,” he snorted thought keeping his comments under his breath, just knowing how much he was getting away with, how much he’s already gotten away it, those muses deserved better justice. He needed to work, he needed to get something fucking done about it. The furrow in his brows evident at the stress Sebastian Steele causes him, feeling safe enough to display that emotion in front of Tammy. “I.. I can’t promise you something I can’t guarantee,” Ashton was straight with him, he deserved the honesty, “But I can look into it, if that’s what you really want." 

Tammy stopped making sense, seeing the haziness shrouded over him, and so Ashton lightly exhaled and gave in. Be done with it, he couldn’t help the little sting from that, that they were only truly hanging out because he was getting paid for the few hours. But he couldn’t blame him either, Sebastian had to come as an after thought, on a report later tonight, and for now, shitty tv honestly sounded good. “So, legally blonde, is this about a blonde lawyer or about making blondes illegal? Because as a blonde, the latter makes me concerned,” he chuckled softly, helping him fish out the remote but his mind was still turning, not really able to truly stop working because if he did, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

“Ash, language!” Tammy was too far gone to find anything but hilarity in Ash’s words; he tried to laugh, but all that came out was a pained gasp as the emptiness twinged with agony. It was definitely growing back -- suddenly that agony was tinged with panic, if it grew back then he wouldn’t be as beautiful anymore. He’d lose out on all the love he so desperately craved. Part of him wanted to claw the wound open, scrape every last viscera out, but his body was too tired to do anything other than flop back against Ash. “Mmm, feisty,” he murmured, quickly distracted by what he could feel through Ash’s shirt. “And nice abs, by the way. Very firm.” Then the other distraction, the not-quite-promise. “D’you think they’d do these as well?” Tammy vaguely gestured to his chest. “And make it permanent?”

Tammy had a certain stubbornness to him, something he couldn’t wrap his head around no matter how hard he tried. But he was still trying. He may have been tasked with Tammy but there’s a part of him that personally didn’t want to give up on him. It just felt like if he did, Tammy would quickly wind up in a position he was once in.  

“Exciting is putting is mildly,” it was a light scoff, not meant to be condescending to Tammy’s opinions, but the ridiculousness of Sebastian himself and the way he’s weaseled into things and fucking got away with it. “I’ve seen the things he’s done, he’s more than well killed some of us,” Ashton’s tone went grave, the desperate eye sticking from concrete still staring back at him every time he closed his own, one more missing muse he fucked up and couldn’t save. If that isn’t killing them, he didn’t know what is. “Sebastian makes the DIA look like saints. –I could’ve found you a doctor, there are a few– for us,” they were far and wide but not unknown to him. But now it just felt like harping on something that can’t be changed, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Exhilarating?” Tammy decided it was better not to mention how thoroughly Sebastian had terrified him. How he stared into his eyes and saw nothing, not even the cruelty and self-satisfaction of his usual difficult clients. As far as he new, Sebastian was a black hole. He was nothing -- not even a fractured soul, but an empty vessel, and somehow that was far worse. “He’ll die, eventually,” Tammy mumbled, face smooshed into Ash’s chest. The statue sprung to mind, the torso he’d seen Sebastian shooting. But one day, old age would catch up with Mr. Steele. Death would come to take him, and the muses would endure. Despite Ash’s tone, Tammy couldn’t take him seriously; the pain was too much, detaching him from reality and leaving him stranded in a half-world where nothing could touch him.