Chapter Text
The first time you wake up, you're warm. The kind of warm that makes your skin tingle. The kind of warm you just want to sink into forever. It's cozy, it's safe, it's bliss. Your head is filled with cotton- at least that's how it feels. It's not an unpleasant feeling, or an unfamiliar one. Your hazy mind picks up on only the smallest handful of details.
You're warm, pleasantly so. The gravel digging into your bare legs feels nice- is this what acupuncture feels like? Acupuncture fucking rules. You can't quite open your eyes. It's not frightening, though some part of you registers that it should be alarming, this inability to fully awaken and view your surroundings. You make a real, concentrated effort to open your eyes but you only manage to crack them for a moment, unable to make out anything beyond a vast blur of orange and red above you. Huh. Where are you? It was already night when you went out- at least you think it was night. It was cold, you remember that. You can only assume you're still outside, having glanced at the sunrise. The most vibrant red sunrise you have ever seen.
Your eyes fall shut again and you can't be bothered to open them back up again. You're warm, you're at peace, what little of your surroundings you managed to catch sight of were lovely. You're fine. Probably. And then once again you're asleep.
The second time you wake up is much more jarring.
There's gravel stabbing you all over your bare ass legs- why the fuck aren't you wearing any pants? Your head is pounding, and you're damp with sweat, an uncomfortable combination at the best of times. The thing that really gets you though, is the sound of city life around you. Cars, talking, distant music. You are pretty fucking sure you're not waking up where you fell asleep.
When you manage to peel open your eyes, the first thing you notice is that red, red sky. It's not sunrise it's just... It's just doing that. You're confused, growing more frightened by the second, and you're pretty sure your legs might be bleeding in some spots from the gravel, which only makes you think, "where the fuck are my pants?"
Sitting up makes you dizzy, worsens the pounding in your head, but you need to get your shit together and get home fast. God, your mom's gonna fucking kill you. Looking down at yourself you find that, yep, your pants are indeed missing, and you're clad in only your underwear and a t shirt. At least you're not naked! Small miracles, you suppose. You push yourself up, grasping at the brick wall behind you to support yourself as you stand on wobbly legs.
You squint, trying to figure out if the fog covering your vision is from last night’s bender or just the result of dehydration. Fuck, you’re thirsty.
A cursory glance around reveals a grand total of fuck all for information. The only thing you can glean from your surroundings is that you’re in an alley, tucked behind a staircase leading up to the back door of somewhere. The few signs you can read from your position are more useful, if only slightly.
Well, you’re definitely in the red light district of whatever city you’d ended up in. The sheer amount of “XXX” posters on the building you’re leaning against could have given Vegas a run for its money. You’ve never been to Vegas, but you assume this would be overkill there too.
Maybe you can steal some pants from a stripper or something. Then at least you can suffer through your walk home without your ass on display. If you’re really lucky, someone will have dropped some spare change and you can get a soda from one of the vending machines across the street.
The public vending machines are new. Man, you must be really far from home. How many miles did you walk on that cocktail of pills last night?! You’ve got to remember to ask the shady guy who sold them to you to hook you up again. If he’s got uppers that make you work out you’re gonna have legs for days.
Not wanting to risk the street, you made your miserable way up the staircase. To your delight and surprise, the handle was unlocked and the room it led into was empty. Even better, there was a pile of clothes only a few paces in! Sure, they looked a lot like someone had gotten real creative with the glitter, and they were almost certainly dirty stripper pants, but hey! Pants are pants when you don’t have any on.
They're a little too baggy for you, and with no belt or even shoelaces (how did you lose your fucking shoes?! You're more upset about the shoes than the pants honestly- those were nice shoes. They will be dearly missed.) to speak of, you have to resort to just letting them hang lower on your hips than you would prefer. You'd take too big pants over too small pants anyways, easier to deal with baggage than pinching.
Pants newly acquired, you survey your surroundings a little more. This is definitely the back room of a strip club, if the wall of mirrors, lockers with pieces of lace and feather sticking out, and the obscene amount of glitter prove anything. Kinda weird, honestly. You always thought glitter at a strip club was a big no-no, it falls off all over people and then those people go home, where their partners will find the stripper glitter, and get pissed off. Maybe even pissed off enough to kill the offending partner- or the poor innocent glittery stripper! This place must be pretty fuckin' shameless if they're willing to risk that. Or they've got great security. Which, clearly they do not, because you got in here with literally no issues, through an unlocked door that opens into a shady alleyway. So shameless it is.
You're kind of tempted to snoop, maybe steal a few bills to pay for a ride home. Maybe a stack of bills, considering you have no fucking clue where you are or how long it will take you to get home. You don't even know what time of day it is. That line of thinking brings you back to the question of that striking red sky. You've never seen that before. Maybe you're up in the mountains somewhere? It could be an altitude thing? But you're pretty sure there's no mountains within walking distance of your house. Definitely none that you could have made your way through with no fucking pants on.
Oh fuck, wherever your pants are they have your only valuable possessions in them- what little cash you had as well as the last of your pills. You're pissed now. Less about the pants themselves and more about the shit you had in the pockets.
You're definitely gonna need to take some money from these girls. Sorry strippers!
You're trying to yank open a locker when the door- the one opposite the one you'd come in through, the one that no doubt opens up to the club on the other side of the wall, slams open. Shit.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Whatever excuse you were about to offer up died on your tongue when you saw the source of the voice. You’d been expecting a big, muscular man who could probably pull your head off with his bare hands. You’d expected that part, but…well, either the bouncer at this club is a giant blue lizard man, or you’re more fucked up than you thought.
“You’re really big.” Fuck fuck fuck, stupid mouth, don’t blurt shit out like—
The man…lizard…thing…whatever snorted, then grinned, then burst into laughter. He didn’t seem angry, just amused. You kept silent, not wanting to change his jovial mood.
“Oh cmon, sweetheart, you don’t gotta look so scared. The boss said Val’s been scouting new meat, but I wasn’t expecting to see something so…fresh dropped at our door.”
It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, the way the man’s eyes wandered to your hips as he took a drag of his cigarette. It was unusual for people to be so casual about it though, usually people would avert their eyes once you caught them looking.
You're significantly more confused now than you were when you woke up. Not about the attention, but about the fact that you weren't getting kicked out. You try to replay this... Lizard dude's words. He said not to be scared which, you don't think you could stop being scared without a little chemical assistance (God what you wouldn't give for just a single bar of Xanax right now), and he said 'Val' has been looking for new meat which, kind of makes you think this dude is going to eat you. But that directly contradicts his assurance that you don't need to be afraid. Your brain is doing that thing it does, where you get too confused and just shut down altogether.
You manage to break your eyes away from this guy- you must still be so fucked up, but you've never had visuals like this before. What the fuck did your guy give you? Man, this is the last time you buy drugs from dudes who hang out in middle school parking lots. That's a lie, you'll almost definitely be buying from that guy again, because now that you really think about it, this is kind of awesome. If you manage to get home in one piece, you'll have a hell of a story to tell. Not that you really have anyone to tell it to...
You move to massage your temples, your head still hurts but the pounding has reduced to a dull ache. The reflected motion of your action in the mirror catches your eye though and oh my God. You don't know how you could have possibly not noticed this while you were on your mad dash to find some pants. You don't look like yourself. Well, you do, but you also don't. At all.
Intrinsically, you know you're looking at yourself. Though all your distinguishing features seem to have been either distorted or changed altogether. But somehow, just looking at the reflection, you know this is you. It's like some strange version of kinesthesia- an instinctual knowledge of your own body. Damn. You actually look pretty good. Weird! But good.
The lizard man rolls his eyes and pats your shoulder in a friendly manner.
“Yeah, yeah, we all get it doll face, you look good. Now quit ogling yourself in the mirror and go home, we closed twenty minutes ago.”
You nod, and offer a shaky smile as you turn to the door. The lizard man waves you off, muttering something about needing to lock up before sunrise.
Once again alone in the alley, you take a moment to look at your hands. You’ve got claws now, and it takes several attempts at pinching yourself with them to convince you that they’re real.
It could have been fun if you were home, but right now it just sucked. Seeing things without being high sucks, you decide. Whatever you’re on, you’re ready to come down. Shoving your hands in the pockets of your (the stripper’s? Fuck it, they’re yours now) jeans, you find a wadded up single bill and a small coin you don’t recognize.
Vending machines in sight, you cross the street leisurely, ready to taste the comfort of some familiar and caffeinated soda. Upon closer inspection though, the vending machines seem to be selling drugs. What kind of sick prank is this? Whichever street artist thought this was a good idea is getting their installation a one-star review on Google, once you figure out where the hell you actually are.
Annoyed at the lack of soda, you kick the machine. It sputters and makes a grating crunching sound, then spits a small bag of clumpy white powder out onto the sidewalk.
Man, if this shit is real you’re really gonna have to update that review. Five stars to whoever is selling drugs for the paltry sum of $1.25!
The half hour you've been conscious has just been one round of whiplash after another. At least now you have the small comfort of getting extremely fucked up to look forward to. You stuff the baggie in your pocket, figuring it would probably be better to find somewhere less public to take it- what even was it? You're not particularly well versed in powders, most of your expertise lies in the realm of pills. You survery the vending machine again to take stock of the potential drugs you've just acquired. Coke, Bojack, McWeedies 420, Squip, Heroin, Krunchy Krokodil, Angel Dust. You don't even know what at least three of those are.
You pinch at the baggie in your pocket. White powder is probably cocaine, right? You can probably handle cocaine. Only one way to find out you suppose. You turn away to scan the street around you, hoping to find a secluded corner or another unlocked door to slip through so you can find somewhere to gather your senses and then lose them completely. The few people you see in the neighborhood all astound you. Each individual just as strange and striking as you'd found yourself, and that big lizard guy. Speaking of-
"Hey fresh meat, you need a ride back to the studio?" There he is again, now in the drivers seat of a lifted truck. Yeah, he seems like a lifted truck kind of guy. But what studio is he talking about? This is exactly the kind of situation all of those stranger danger PSA's warned you about. You vaguely recall being told as a child never to get into a car with a stranger- something or another about secondary locations. But hey, you wouldn't have half as much fun as you do if you never got into cars with strange men!
"Yeah, sure." You scurry down the sidewalk, hoisting yourself up, flinging open the door, and hauling yourself up into the passenger seat. Fucking lifted trucks. It's like climbing a tree getting into these things. The gator guy seems to enjoy watching you struggle to get in. Once you do get in, you're even more aware of the size difference between the two of you. He could probably snap you in half like a toothpick. God you hope this guy's not gonna eat you. Maybe getting in his car was a bad idea. You could probably get out and run and- oh shit, never mind, the car is moving, and it's moving fast.
"Damn kid, if I'da' known I'd be droppin' off one of Val's new girls I'd have grabbed a booster seat on the way." The guy laughs, watching you lurch forward and to the sides with every stop and turn. This guy doesn't even have any fucking seatbelts in this thing.
"Not a girl," you offer him nothing beyond that, too focused on clinging to your seat for dear life. He throws his hands up- dear God, please put them back on the wheel dude.
"Well, my apologies." He's laughing at you definitely, but you're fearing for your life a little too much to be mad about it. "How long you been workin' for Val? I think I'd remember if I'd seen someone like you hangin' around." And he's giving you the look again, the ’I'm going to eat you- in the horny way, not the cannibalism way' look.
"Oh, not long," you are lying so hard right now. You have never met a 'Val' in your entire life. But you're a damn good liar, and the key to lying well is keeping shit vague. In those shitty court procedurals your mom likes to watch, lawyers often give their (very guilty) clients the advice of, "Say as little as possible. If a question can be answered with a simple yes or no, just say yes or no. Do not elaborate unless prompted."
Which, rarely works in the show because of course the people receiving this advice are always guilty, and the notoriously fair American judicial system always figures that out within a tight 22 minutes. In real life though, it's fantastic advice, both inside and outside the courtroom. Keep things as vague as possible, and as brief as possible. Never say anything you couldn't reasonably corroborate or backtrack without major suspicion.
The lying was easy. The man was easygoing, and was clearly willing to play along whether or not he actually believed you. Optimistically, you knew you could have picked a worse guy to hitchhike with. Despite his size, the man seemed good-natured and generally didn’t give off the vibe that he wanted to rape or murder you, as strange men in shady red light district alleyways are sometimes want to do.
You made small talk, waving off the lizard guy’s casual flirting and maintaining your vague answers in a way you hoped came off as mysterious. As the conversation went on, the surroundings got more dense and urban. It struck you as odd though, things didn’t seem to be getting less seedy as the buildings grew taller. In the cities you’d seen, more skyscrapers usually meant more money, and therefore less obvious crime and disrepair. Wherever you are, the buildings are dense and the businesses shady.
You make a mental note that wherever you are, pot is legal enough to sell openly. That lowered your list of places you could be significantly! Progress is positive, just like your old therapist would say. Was pot legal in Nevada? Maybe you are in Vegas. Maybe the lizard guy is just wearing a really high-quality fursuit.
You’re pulled from your thoughts by the screeching of tires and the sudden jolt of stopping. You really wished this bigass truck had seatbelts. Whatever idiot modded the seatbelts out of it deserved to get kicked in the shins. By their stupid ass seatbeltless modded truck.
The man jumped out of his seat and onto the pavement below with remarkable ease. It was paradoxical how his hulking form contrasted with the almost-graceful mannerism, like a rhinoceros doing gymnastics.
You tripped on the scuffed metal step down. Stupid baggy glittery stolen fucking stripper jeans.
You're still barefoot too, but at the very least these big ass pants allow you to stand on some of the excess fabric. The building you'd been driven to is tall, neon LED's flashing V, V, V. You can assume at least one of those V's is for this Val you've been hearing so much.
This place seems fancy, despite being surrounded by more strip joints than you'd ever seen concentrated into one city block. Floor to ceiling windows, bright lights, and a massive satellite standing at the very top of the building. It's the kind of place you shouldn't go wandering blindly into.
You wanna wander blindly into this place so fucking bad.
"Thanks for the ride," you say to the lizard man, though you haven't taken your eyes off the daunting building in front of you. You should form a plan of attack. Scout the area out for unguarded doors, hey, maybe you'll get lucky like you did at that strip club and one will be unlocked for you to slip into!
Or, you can just follow lizard dude, who is (very politely) holding the door open for you.
"Wow, what a gentleman," you say, and he gives an exaggerated bow, following you inside.
Now that you're actually in here you're realizing that you have no idea what you were hoping to achieve by getting inside this big fancy building. You suppose you'll just keep doing what you've been doing: walking as confidently as possible until something interesting finds and/or happens to you.
The lizard man walks with a purpose towards a receptionist’s desk, where a stick-thin woman with horns like a sheep sits with an uninterested scowl. She barely glances at the pair of you before pressing a button on her desk, and gesturing towards possibly the longest couch you’ve ever seen.
“Wait there, I’m sure Vox will be down in a second.”
You decide you need information more than anything else. Whoever these Val and Vox people are, they must be important. Best to know at least something about them before you’re inevitably thrust before them. You briefly consider just making a run for it, but decide to table that option as a last resort. You still don’t know where you are, and you should probably at least get ahold of some shoes before you go wandering off.
“Sooo…how do you know Vox?” You ask.
“Eh, I run errands. Got a couple boxes of new parts in the truck, something for that new security project he announced. Wouldn’t really say I know the guy.”
Parts? Security? Ok, some kind of tech manufacturer or startup company. God you hope you aren’t just hallucinating in the lobby of a Google Corp building or something. Though it might be funny to hallucinate Mark Zuckerberg as an actual lizard!
Your anxiety is starting to take hold a little more now. You are feeling sorely undermedicated and pretty fucking clueless, both unpleasant circumstances on their own, but together they are the perfect recipe for having a bad fucking time.
You lift your feet up onto the couch to sit criss-crossed, like a child waiting for instructions from a teacher. You just can't keep them on the ground because if you do you know they'll start jittering and not stop, which will totally give you away and completely fuck you over. Unfortunately, this does not work in your favor at all, because your crossed legs are still jittering. Enough so for your lizard buddy to take notice.
"You good over there, kid?"
"I'm fine." You insist, though the clipped response definitely betrays your intent to stay cool and aloof. You're starting to wish you'd already done that coke that's currently stuffed in the pocket of your stripper pants. Or maybe you should be grateful you didn't? You've never done coke before so it's hard to say whether it would have invigorated you enough to act Confident and Cool, or if it would have just made you freak the fuck out.
"You sure?" He asks, digging into his pocket. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, shaking the box at you in a way that you're not sure if he intends to be taken as taunting or enticing. Either way, you won't complain about free nicotine.
"I could be better." you say, plucking a stick from the pack and holding it out for him to light.
The relief is palpable even in that first drag. You're pretty sure it's some kind of placebo- maybe just having something to do with your hands is helping? And smoking gives you a good excuse not to talk.
You're mid exhale when an elevator dings on the other end of the lobby. You've seen some weird shit today, really really weird shit. But if you had to crown perhaps the most out of pocket thing you'd come across, it would be the TV headed motherfucker exiting the elevator, looking right at you, headed in your direction.
The surprise is enough to make you sputter and cough, immediately embarrassing yourself in front of Mister Screen Face, who your lizard companion stands up to greet.
“Good morning…Burke!” The TV head, Vox, glances down at the lizard man’s chest before saying his name, and you mentally hit yourself for not noticing the name tag earlier.
“Mornin’ Vox, got that new shipment. Quite a few angels left spears and the like behind during the extermination, should be plenty for your guys to work on.”
Vox’s grin widens to fill the entire bottom half of his face (screen?) before he speaks. He sounds like someone you’d have seen narrating sports play-by-plays.
The men talk about numbers and payments while your mind races. Angels. The Extermination. You really, really hope you’re wrong about the conclusions you’re drawing.
“And who is this? It’s unusual for me to see a brand new face in my lobby.”
Shit, Vox is clearly suspicious of you, and if you can’t bullshit your way out of this one you can’t even think of what he might do to you-
“One of Val’s new recruits. Figure y’all can find a use for fresh meat.”
“Oh, wonderful! A couple of our girls have, eh…gone missing these past few days, I’m sure someone’s got a use for them.”
Vox holds out his hand to you, and you shake it. Firm grip, businessmen like that right? He gives you a look you can’t read, then turns to the sheep woman at the desk.
“Brittley, let Val know he’s got an interview. Now, Burke, let’s get those spears indoors before some scalper figures out what’s in them.”
The sheep lady- Brittley, apparently (who the fuck names their kid Brittley?), dutifully clacks away at the computer in front of you, pausing with her fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment, before nodding to you.
"He's ready for you," she says, which is pretty ominous.
"Oh, okay, uh, where do I...?" You gesture vaguely at the elevator. Brittley rolls her eyes at you.
"Eighth floor." She says, and resumes typing. When you pass by her desk, you glance over your shoulder at her screen. She's playing snake. She's playing fucking snake, like there aren't one million more interesting games to potentially get fired for playing on the clock.
"Cool," you say, more to yourself than her. This is cool. This is cool! This is an adventure, not a potentially dangerous situation that could end up with you chopped up into little pieces and distributed throughout an unfamiliar city.
Every floor you travel up makes you a little more nervous. You honest to God jump when the elevator door opens on the fourth floor and a scantily clad fox looking woman steps in with you. You try not to stare but...damn, this furry's got some fuckin honkers. Good for her. Neither of you exchange words, and she gets off on the seventh floor.
Once again you are alone, ascending into the unknown.
When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you're greeted by... a lot of pink and red. Even with the purple and gold accents it’s like, an obscene amount of pink and red. Like Valentines day threw up in here. Oh shit, maybe that's the Val everyone’s been talking about! No, that's dumb, it's not that. Probably.
You hear a man’s voice coming from behind a paper screen covered in peacock feather designs.
“Come closer, gatito, let me look at you.”
The voice is smooth, almost purring, with a subtle Spanish accent that jumped out at the patronizing nickname.
You round the screen, stepping into the illusion of a private room overlooking the city. The windows are tinted red, a subtle iridescence clueing you in that they’re probably mirrors on the other side. Layers of plush carpet sink under your feet as you walk, making it increasingly difficult to keep your pace steady. A truly massive chaise lounge sat in the center of the room, with large velvet pillows littered across the floor around it.
The source of the voice was draped casually over the side of the lounge. As you made your way towards him, he looked you up and down with a bored expression. He was tall, incredibly so, even with his reclined position you were just short of reaching his shoulders. His skin was a cold steel-gray, with a piercing gaze in solid red eyes.
He’d be intimidating, if not for the fact that this guy could not be dressed more like a stereotypical pimp if he tried. He even had a fucking cigarette holder, like a tool.
He beckoned you closer with one very sharp and manicured claw, and upon second glance you realized he had a second set of arms.
“Closer, acercate, come here little one. Yo no muerdo, no need to be so shy.”
You comply, doing your absolute damnedest to not trip over these big stupid pants and faceplant into this marvelously lush carpet. At least if you do you could potentially land on one of those sinfully comfortable looking pillows scattered across the floor. There's a lot of pillows. What man needs this many fucking pillows? And all on the floor?
You stop, a barrier of velvet cushions separating you from this man in his party city pimp costume. Those claws are pretty intimidating though- which reminds you that you have your own. You press them into your palms, just to make sure they're still there and- yep, ouch, they are definitely still there.
"Oh, you look so nervous! What are you scared of, gatito?"
Talk about fucking patronizing. You have never gotten the ick from a man so fast in your life, and you bought pills from a dude hanging out in a middle school parking lot yesterday
"I'm not scared." You're bluffing, of course. You're on the verge of either pissing your pants or maybe throwing up. He smiles wide, revealing sharp teeth. Teeth longer than your fingers.
“Ah, the little kitten has claws, muy lindo. Don’t lie to me, you’re shaking. Vox said you’re here for an interview, yes?
You nod, not trusting yourself to hold back a stutter. Val shifts, slowly sitting upright, and leans closer to you. Behind his heart-shaped glasses, you realize he’s got compound eyes like an insect, and feathery antennae poking through holes in his hat. You briefly wonder if he cut the holes out himself, but before you can think about it too hard you feel a hand on your back.
You’d been so distracted by his insectile features that you hadn’t noticed his lower left arm coiling around you. His other left arm cradled your chin and tilted your face to the side, while he felt up the side of your body with one right arm and took a drag of his cigarette with the other.
There was no god damn way the red smoke he blew out was just tobacco. It smelled sweet and artificial, like liquid cherry medicine you’d give to kids. Not to mention that it swirled and hung around in the air instead of dissipating. You inhaled, hoping for enough of a secondhand buzz to keep you calm. God that shit is thick.
Val laughed condescendingly at your obvious discomfort, then hummed when one wandering hand slipped into your pocket.
“What’s this, hmm? Need a pick-me-up already?”
God this guy just cannot go ten fucking seconds without talking down to you. But…you couldn’t deny that he was right. Whatever the hell was going on was way too much for you to handle sober, and snorting mystery powder was getting more and more appealing by the second.
You stared at the baggie, and fuck you were practically drooling.
“You know, a powerful man like me? I can keep you hooked up for life.”
Fuck, just give me back my drugs.
“I can make it part of our deal, gatito. You work for me, and I keep you safe and high. How’s that sound?”
It sounded good. So god damn good to your shot nerves and creeping headache. You couldn’t just trust this guy but…you were pretty fuckin sure you weren’t getting home tonight. Or…ever, if the uncomfortable conclusion you’d been slowly accepting was correct.
You needed a job, and somewhere to sleep, and fuck you needed a hit of something. This guy, no matter how shady he was, was your best option.
Your only option.
“Oh, cmon little one, don’t you want to be a star? I’ll make you famous, espléndido.”
If you play your cards right, you can probably make something good out of all this. You don't have a lot of experience with card games, but you're willing to take a gamble.
"I think... I think I need to get my mind right before I make any decisions." Okay, not particularly subtle, but you're not getting yelled at or bitch slapped so maybe, just maybe, you made a solid move. Val smiles at you in a way that reads more as a sneer.
"What's your poison?" He asks, taking a long (dramatic, almost dorkily so) drag of what you're pretty sure is just a solidified stick of cough syrup.
"What do you have?" You ask, though you'd probably take just about anything right now.
"Oh, gatito," he purrs. "We have everything."
“Xanax?” You try.
Val snaps, and within seconds a tiny red lady in a clown suit scrambles to hand him a very familiar bottle full of very familiar pills.
You expect him to hand you one, maybe the bottle if you’re lucky. Instead, he taps out three full tablets and throws them back like a shot.
Once, twice, he pats the seat next to him and looks at you expectantly. Message received, you gladly press yourself into his side. The hand that had been rifling through your pockets slides over the back of your neck, and you find yourself opening your mouth before you register Val’s mouth pressing into yours.
You feel a thick, tapered tongue worm its way past your teeth and down your throat. You take the feeling of a chemical burn inching its way down your chest to be at least one of the pills making its way into your body.
You open your eyes (fuck, when did you even close them?) and look up at Val in silence. He’s got you already, and it’s pretty fuckin obvious that he knows it. There’s a piece of paper in one of his hands, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it is.
Your contract.
“I hope your mind’s right enough to sign, querido.”
There's a tiny little voice in the back of your head, whispering to you that this is a bad idea. You can still run. Don't do it. But there's a much larger, much louder voice telling you FREE DRUGS, FUCK YEAH, I'LL SIGN WHATEVER YOU WANT BABY.
You sometimes wonder why your conscience even bothers at this point. You know damn well that when given the choice between a responsible decision and a fun one, you will pick fun. Every time.
When you take the contract you're expecting him to whip out an honest to god feather quill- he's a pretty extravagant guy from the looks of it, that seems like his sort of thing. Instead, you get a pink glitter gel pen which, while adorable, does not seem like the type of writing utensil one uses to sign legal documents.
Oh well. You don't really care if any of this holds up in a court of law. You sign your name, just your first name. You figure Val probably won't give a shit, and the satisfied look he gets when you hand the signed document back to him just confirms that.
You sigh and sink back into the chaise lounge. God this thing is so fucking comfortable. You live here now, in this fancy ass couch. Couch is your home.
It occurs to you that you probably should have at least skimmed the contract you signed, but the thought floats away just as easily as it came. You feel better now, much better. Man you fucking love this couch. It's cozy, it's safe, it's bliss.
Val chuckles as you lean into him. You think you feel one of his arms around you. You’re certain you feel his tongue on you. You hear the pen clatter to the floor as he drags you into his lap.
“What do we say when papi gives you something nice?”
You collect your thoughts just enough to force your eyes to focus on his before you lean in for a kiss.
“Thank you.”
Even through the haze you could feel his claws dig into your cheeks.
“Thank you…master?”
“Good kitty.”