Work Text:
Perhaps God’s cruelest joke was that Lumacchio had been born a man.
In the firelight she can pretend. There is a softness to Lumacchio, one he both erases and nurtures in his every action. His body is soft, skin kept supple by powders and creams, muscles overlaid with a generous layer of fat, his hair silky when not slicked back with pomade. Even his voice is soft, a huskiness that he claimed could woo anyone. His moans always pitched high, keening in her ears like music.
But he hides this softness under the sharp cut of his suits, the ones that nip in at the waist and make his shoulders look far broader than they really are. He tried to pretend he was someone he was not, just as much as she did the same.
—
Perhaps God’s cruelest joke was that Véronique had been born a woman.
In the firelight he can pretend. Her shoulders are broad, broader than any other man he’s ever slept with, and her skin scarred and gnarled with scars. Burns, cuts, a singular stab wound in her side. She wore them like badges of honour, even though he found the texture repulsive. Véronique did not pretend to be someone she wasn’t, she was loud, abrasive, blunt. She always spoke her mind, especially if it meant insulting him in as colourful language as she could think of. And Véronique could think of a lot of ways to insult him.
—
She’s not sure why she agreed to their arrangement.
Maybe it was just loneliness. The girls, well they looked at her and saw danger, but not in the fun way they read about in their trashy novels, the kind that she would read when no one was looking. She did not look the part of handsome rogue beneath her ram’s mask, they saw her blunt nose, square jaw, wide mouth and thought boring, ugly. Not worth the time.
Lumacchio did not look at her like that. He did not snip at her appearance, did not snip at the way her mannish hands would grip him too tight and leave bruises like kisses on his pale flesh. He saw her as a rival but not as something to be conquered but rather to be admired instead. He called her darling, in saccharine sweet tones that almost sounded honest.
—
He’s not sure why he approached her in the first place.
Perhaps it was to taste something different, to get a sense for what he was missing. There was no man in Krat quite like Véronique, not one who dominated him in a way that spoke to great care and respect. They only ever wanted him to lick their shoes, bow and scrape and smile as he debased himself for their enjoyment. They thought him a freak, a whore, debauched. Her expression was always softer, a quiet understanding. She knew, in a way that only Véronique could.
—
His letters always smell of expensive perfume, sandalwood, cedar, roses, and they are at odds with the gunpowder and oil of her workshop. The paper is thick and creamy, expensive, the ink a rich black in curling handwriting. A single word, a question.
Tonight?
Véronique does not need to send a response, Lumacchio would not have sent it if he didn’t know she was free. The question mark, curling like a vine, is a courtesy, the illusion of choice. She will always say yes.
They meet at her place, a little one bedroom house just outside the Tomb Slums. The outside looked rundown, with its rotting windows, missing tiles and peeling paint, but it was her home all the same, somewhere with a bed, a place to keep her weapons and tools, a place she could be safe if she needed it. He had simply called it quaint in a voice that barely hid his disgust.
He dresses in hooded black, the make and cut of his clothing too expensive to really let him blend in, but he leaves his mask behind. So few Stalkers leave their faces bare these days, the noses always stuffed with aromatic herbs to ward off the electric sweet of the Petrified dead. It’s an admission of vulnerability and not even one she asks of him. But it’s one she appreciates nonetheless.
—
He will admit that he is a greedy lover. He knows what he likes and he takes it, making demands as if they are his very right. Even this act of submission is what he wants and Véronique is more than happy to oblige.
“More,” he moans, as if the toy drilling against his ass hasn't made him cum once already. “Please, Véronique-“
When they sit afterwards, amidst the sweat stained sheets and he drinks the wine she offers, she will attend to her own pleasure. Quick, practical, like everything about her. He will turn his head away and try not to let his disgust ruin the mood. Where is the grand performance, the basking in the pleasure? A few rubs, a quiet groan, and then she will rise from the bed to wash, returning moments later, dressed once again. Once, he had placed his hand on her thigh and Véronique had just looked amused at the implied offer.
“Really Lumacchio?” She had said. “You wouldn’t even know where to start.”
—
In the firelight, they can pretend.
She will be a large dark shape in the twisting light, with broad shoulders and rough calloused hands that grip him bruisingly. On the bed, he will lie like a pale princess, his legs spread open, waiting. To the other, they are exactly what they want.
She will lean over him and press in, a finger covered in slick oil that breaches the ring of muscle easily, his body fitting the shape of hers perfectly. In and out, a second and third stretching him wide, until he’s already babbling for more. Next, the toy, strapped to a practical harness she wears like a weapon. Its surface is buffed smooth and slick with oil, its length and girth exactly to his specifications. It slides in easily with her preparations and he moans, long and loud at the full feeling it gives as she just rests it there. Then she pulls out to the tip, slow and steady, her pace increasing to something brutal, making the headboard slam against the wall and springs creak in protest. His cock stands at full mast, red and weeping as it slaps against his stomach with each violent thrust but he leaves it, unable to let go out his death grip of the wooden slats just above his head. It is her job to reach forward and stroke it- even though she would like nothing more than to stimulate herself through the growing heat- to pump the flaming organ until it spurts with a cry, the man beneath her going limp in the afterglow.
“What would I do without you Véronique?” Lumacchio asks.
“You wouldn’t survive without me Lumacchio,” Véronique replies, almost like a joke from her lips.
—
In the end, he supposes, she is right.