Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If the dreams Lizzie had plagued them with at the dawn of her conception were bad, the fantasies she’s able to cook up now that Flare has accepted her are downright sinful. They have to remind themself she’s still a fairly wild thing, even if they’ve managed to domesticate her with the Drifter’s help. It’s like swapping out a cat that pees on everything— a nasty, constant irritant, for one that claws and mewls at the door, desperate to get in. Comparatively not as bad, but it still makes it a little harder to sleep at night.

The night’s show started out fairly normal, with Flare on stage holding a guitar that was very much not Lizzie. In fact, it may not even be a guitar at all, but some contraption she’s cooked up. The instrument’s wires are thick and cordlike, curling around their wrists to prevent them from playing even a single note in front of the crowded amphitheater.

Flare looks behind them to their band mates for help, finding the stage completely empty. The audience is no help either, just a mass of silent, swaying figures with blank faces.

Except for one of them.

It’s one of Lizzie’s favorite forms to take in their dreams when she’s feeling a little frustrated or possessive, which is relatively often. She’s tall, eyes that burn like embers, vibrant red hair that falls straight down her back. Black latex hugs her every curve, snaking up full thighs, wrapping around her midsection, encasing her arms to the elbows. She’s a vision, that’s for sure; Flare’s not certain when she’d started taking an interest in punk fashion but hells do they love it.

Lizzie’s their picture perfect fantasy, heavy stacked heels clunking up the metal stairs that lead to the stage.

Pretty Rockstar, did You forget?

Her voice is still hers and Flare’s skin burns with tingles at the sound of it.

How loved You are… Endlessly adored and Worshipped…

They love the way she purrs their praises, a slight sweat breaking out on their forehead under the beaming lighting. If this were reality, their security team would have stopped her long before those sinful heels hit the first step, but there is no reality— only Her.

It’s like they’re in a bubble, utterly empty and surrounded at once, unable to focus on anything that isn’t Lizzie but it’s all Lizzie, they realize. The nondescript faces of the audience, a thousand Lizzies, the heat of the lights her searing warmth, the instrument they hold that isn’t her still bound by her control.

Even in dreams, nothing but Lizzie can channel their music, can cheer and scream for them with so many sweet voices, can burn them from the inside out.

And still… We are your biggest Fan, sweet Lover.

She’s right in front of them and it feels like she’s towering over them now, the heels giving her a few extra inches, but it’s her gaze that makes them feel so infinitesimally small. Lizzie takes the instrument in her hands, cords still locked tight around their wrists, and raises it up above their head.

Flare is a marionette dangling from her strings, so eager to bend into exactly what she wants them to be. The guitar sticks where she placed it, as if mounted up on an invisible wall, keeping their arms stretched above their head.

Lizzie explores them, her pace tantalizingly slow as she wedges her fingers under the lapels of their jacket. In reality, the bits of their costume the techrot had melted into them didn’t budge, but here? Lizzie’s hands part the tender flesh like peeling the rind away from ripe fruit, lacquered nails dragging along exposed skin that’s so sensitive they could cry.

She trails those nails down their chest to their stomach, swirling around where their navel would be, lifting her knee between their legs to press against the curvature of their codpiece.

Won’t You sing for Us, Dearest One? You know what We ache to hear.

When Flare averts their eyes from her, glancing downward to hide their flush, they realize that they’re bared, the protective metal plating having dissolved alway into nothingness. It would embarrass them to be exposed in front of a crowd. They’ve never been an exhibitionist despite their grandiose persona, but it’s just Lizzie, watching them and devouring them with a thousand pairs of glinting eyes. Seeing them for all they are and adoring it.

Every so often she’ll play around with their inner workings in the dreams. They’ve never felt entirely comfortable with their body, and it’s fun for her to make little changes here and there, try out different combinations and let them explore what feels best. Last time, she’d given them swollen breasts that ached for her touch, a straining length to sink into her while she kneaded and sucked at them. Before that, a slender build with a flat chest, slick folds she’d moaned into, lapping them up like the sweetest, stickiest ice cream sundae.

Now, they’re… relatively normal, at least as close to normal they are in reality, save for being a little easier to get opened up and exposed. They can tell something’s got Lizzie worked up enough that she didn’t want to experiment, but there’s a barrier of separation between them in this dream. Flare can’t read into her thoughts as fully.

She slips two fingers into them at once without bothering to peel her glove off and hells— it feels good, the cool latex soothing their burning flesh. Lizzie doesn’t waste a second getting to work, spreading their legs with her knee and pumping into them in a metronomic rhythm.

They sing for her, a chorus of moans and sighs and bitten-back groans that echo around the stadium despite the absence of a microphone. Lizzie’s singing with them, crooning praises against their ear, stroking at their insides with practiced precision.

It’s been easiest for them to fuck like this, one of them claiming control of their hands or their genitals, splitting the sensation down the middle to bring the other to bliss. Lizzie’s been insatiable since they’d fully accepted her, since they’d let her explore their body and coax out her concealed gift.

Surprisingly, she tends to keep it tucked away when she’s settled into their nether regions, preferring to feel the stretch of their fingers inside her, firm strokes of their thumb over the little bud that peeks out barely half an inch. Flare’s the polar opposite, eager to let their cock slip free and let her wrap those needy hands around it— they’d begged to feel her mouth once, but ultimately found they weren’t quite flexible enough for that.

Perhaps it’s why she invades their dreams so often. In reality, there’s only so much they can do, only so many ways they can play with one another while trapped inside Flare’s body, held back by their physical limitations. But now? In this sphere of liminal lust she’s created in their unconsciousness? The possibilities are endless.

Mmmmusic to Our ears, Lover.

She purrs and they can feel the vibrations of it coursing through her body like they do when they play her. The sensation reaches her fingertips, still plunged deep and exploring their insides, and Flare can’t help straining against the instrument binding their hands.

Ohhhh, Our desperate little Rockstar.

Lizzie adds a third finger and their hips buck with unexpected eagerness, pressing up into them in a precise grinding motion. She whines against Flare’s ear when their cock finally slips free, twitching and squirming out of them so quickly it steals the air from their lungs.

We adore You, Sugar… And all You’ve come to be Together with Us.

Her voice is addictive and Flare craves more of that sweet, sweet praise, rocking steadily against her hand. Their cock curls around her wrist, not to restrict her movements but to keep her there, slicking up the material of her glove and making it shine.

They want her mouth so bad they might beg for it, but Flare knows that isn’t what Lizzie has in mind right now. She’s in control, pulling their strings and playing them just as expertly as they play her. Maybe next time she’d turn up as something petite and demure, willing and submissive to their whims— but not right now.

Does it feel Good, Beautiful One? Our fingers exploring You, Our gift squeezing So Tight…

Lizzie presses her thumb up against the root of their writhing cock, sending a rippling pleasure through each coil from base to tip. Their insides flutter around her and they can hear how slick they’ve gotten, dripping all over her hand and leaking steadily against the dark latex encasing her wrist.

“Yes, yes, Lizzie,” they pant out and the sound reverberates just as their moans did, “feels so— don’t stop, please.”

Flare’s hands ache to touch her, to grab those generous hips and squeeze, slip between her thighs and push the crotch of those unbearably tiny black shorts aside, to feel her come undone with them, but the restraints only bear down more in response to their halfhearted attempts to get free.

We wouldn’t Dare, Lover… You’re doing so Good, putting on such a Show for Us.

She assures them with a nip at their neck, her pinkie finger working its way into them along with the others. Hells, she could put her whole fist inside them and Flare wouldn’t fight it, she has them stretched and wet enough to take it, after all.

Lizzie keeps up the pressure of her thumb against their base though, stroking over the throbbing vein that runs up along the underside of their cock. She’s working them up to a climax from both ends, prodding at the bundle of nerves buried deep in their cunt in perfect sync with the movement of her thumb, letting their length wrap around her wrist so tightly she winces, then grins.

I can Feeeeel it, Lover… It’s almost Time for Your grand Finale…

She giggles, the absolute menace she is, drawing back from their neck to face them straight on, drinking up every expression and reaction they give her. Flare’s eyes roll back into their head at one particularly hard thrust of her fingers up against their inner walls, hitting that spot over and over again until they’re seeing stars and feeling static.

They tighten, every cell of muscle and molecule of techrot in their body tensing in anticipation of the climax that’s about to hit them like a pyrotechnic explosion. Lizzie pulls them over the edge with a sharp movement of her fingers, curling up into them like she’s trying to tear their release out of them. Her free hand finds the tip of their leaking cock, pinching and rubbing at it just like they do when she keeps it curled up inside them, and Flare screams.

It would be amplified to an eardrum-shattering magnitude if the crowd were full of people, but the abyssal sea of blurred faces and swaying bodies that are Lizzie only cheer, applauding them, crying out their name in rapturous waves of sound. The Lizzie that’s restraining them, fucking them, taking them apart on the stage is deathly silent, save for a low growl, a nip at their neck soothed by a flick of her tongue.

“Lizzie,” they pant, once making words with their mouth starts to become a thing they’re able to do again.

Flare isn’t certain what they’re asking for, can’t identify anything in their head other than the need to say her name. They watch through half-lidded eyes as Lizzie withdraws her fingers, slipping her wrist free from their clutches once their length begins to recede back into its rightful place.

The arena warps, the lights dim, the speakers ring a high-pitched feedback in their ears, and they glimpse Lizzie eagerly licking her gloved fingers clean just before they wake with a start.

Flare’s sweaty, disoriented, and utterly soaked, spent inside the confines of their plating. Their partner, on the other hand, is quite content where she’s nestled into their makeshift bed, delightfully drowsy from her exploration. They can feel Lizzie’s presence in the back of their head like a sleepy cat perched across their shoulders.

Mmmm, lie back down with Us, Lover…

She purrs out her words, her sleepiness wearing down their frazzled nerves and lulling them back towards the comforting embrace of their bed.

“Have to clean up your mess,” they grumble, pushing back against Lizzie’s influence and clambering to their feet, searching for a spare rag or anything to wipe themselves off with.

Our Rockstar acts like They didn’t enjoy the Show…

“Don’t pout, babe,” they humor her, letting the petname slip out as they unlatch their armor.

There’s… a lot more to clean up than they’d expected. Flare gasps in astonishment, almost impressed they could make that much, and Lizzie croons pridefully at the mess she’s made them.

You did Enjoy it! So, so much, Sweet Flare. As much as We enjoyed You.

They can’t help getting flustered when she’s all lovey-dovey like this, biting at their lower lip as they begrudgingly mop up their spend with a stray cloth. Hells, she really can be sweet on them… Lizzie was terrifying and frustrating at first, but now that they’ve embraced her, she’s such a dear. Always caring for them, listening to them, telling them exactly what they want— what they need to hear.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” Flare admits after a few quiet moments pass, tossing the rag aside and carefully slotting the lower portion of their codpiece back into place.

The compliment must catch Lizzie by surprise. They can feel her gasp, then go quiet in their mind, pulling back from the constant flow of connection. Flare’s compliment must have touched on whatever’s been getting to her, and they’d guess it’s a little more than her typical angst over not having a real humanoid physical form.

For all the sweet-talking she does, crooning praise that borders on worship in their ear, admiring every piece of them down to the marrow, Flare realizes they’re not the greatest at reciprocating her affection. They’ve returned her adamant confessions of love just once, in a night spent dreaming where she’d had them cradled in her embrace. Flare barely ever uses petnames for her, at least it feels infrequent compared to how often she does it.

The realization that they’re a pretty shit partner isn’t dulled by the fact that their girlfriend is a literal hivemind-infested guitar. Maybe that’s part of what’s been getting her so moody lately. It’s not unlike Lizzie to overcompensate with praises and affection, but to this degree? Where she’s invading their dreams every night with some new scenario, some different configuration of pieces and parts, cycling through every physical trait and costume and kink she could cook up?

Flare knows immediately what Lizzie wants, what she’s been silently pleading for in all these dreamspace trysts.

“I liked the outfit a lot,” they hum, slipping back into bed with her, feeling her settle back down into their brain.

They slip an arm beneath her dual necks, pulling her frame in close to their body. Flare’s free hand traces her curves, fingers catching in the wells of her jagged, flame-like spikes.

“You know this is still my favorite, right?” Flare asks, spreading their fingers to stroke a thumb across her glowing strings. “Can’t play you like this if you’re all… humany.”

Lizzie purrs when they strum a slow chord, her sweet music filling the space around them like a sugary fog. Her contented noises turn to giggles as Flare keeps on playing her, sharp fingertips grazing over her frets, toying with her strings.

As entertaining as it is to tickle her, Flare can feel sleep tugging at them with more insistence this time. There’s still one more thing they need to do though, even as the movement of their fingers slow to lazy, soothing strokes.

“Love you, Liz.”

Chapter Text

Flare has never really been one for preferences, not when it comes to how they present themself, and not in partners either. Sure, they like to keep a more traditionally masculine appearance with a few, well, ‘feminine touches’, for lack of a better term.

The makeup, the glitter, high heels and plunging necklines, especially when they were touring with the Rippers. They know plenty of their teen fans’ parents must have turned their noses up in disgust, called them a sissy or something even more hateful, but hey— at the end of the day, the band still took home plenty of bigoted assholes’ paychecks in merch and ticket sales.

As far as partners go, they’ve had their moments. Can’t resist a pretty face and sweet talk regardless of gender. Flare has never given as much thought to their sexuality as they have all the other stuff, no time for long-term on the road, so why narrow down their options? A score is a score no matter which team you’re playing for.

That being said, Flare has a soft spot for people who are decidedly and dedicatedly feminine. Hard to appreciate in themself sometimes, but so easy to adore on somebody else. Nothing quite as satisfying as having a pretty girl beneath them, skirt hiked up around her waist, whining out how good their mouth feels while they take her apart.

They’d always said when their touring days were over, when they met someone and decided to settle down for something long-term and exclusive, that’s when they’d put a name to it. That crazy kid picking up chicks in bars and fooling around with hot security guards after set strike would keel over if they saw them now.

Flare’s long-term, committed, inescapable partner is a fragment of a multiplicitous hivemind of infestation that transcends time and space entirely, made from their own rotted flesh and blood. And a guitar. And a remarkably convenient flamethrower. Yeah, they’re not getting over this any time soon.

Lizzie knows how weak they are when it comes to girls, and they almost wonder if that influenced her in some way. Of course, there was the name— Elizabeth, a name so commonly associated with monarchy, its nobility reduced down to Lizzie for short, their tool of sonic rebellion. That must be why she’d popped out so decidedly female, despite not really having any concept of gender. They try not to dwell on Lizzie’s existence as a reflection of themself, an invitation to embrace the bits and pieces they’d spent so much of their life disdaining.

Anyway, their girl must have something special in mind for tonight— she’s been giggling nonstop, purring out her cryptic promises.

You shall have suuuuch Sweet dreams Tonight, Loverrrrr.

Just lay Downnnn already, won’t You? Get comfortable for Usssss.

Flare, don’t keep Us waitingggg, sweet Star.

Hells, her whining is adorable, she’s so eager to show them whatever it is she’s planning. Flare might rush a bit to finish up their nightly routine, fluffing their stolen pillows, dimming the lights, prying off as many pieces of armor as they can find. Lizzie’s messy in general, but when she plays with them, it’s always a pain to tidy up when they’re still boneless and half asleep.

Usually it takes her a little while once they get into bed, stirring around in their mind, getting them nice and relaxed and substantially sleepy before she starts shifting their subconscious around into whatever backdrop she’s chosen. Flare can tell tonight is going to be different, pulling her into their sorry excuse of a bed and getting comfortable.

All yours, Lizzie.

Flare draws her against them, hand slotting perfectly into the larger curve of her body and curling around the thickness of her frame. They let their eyes close despite being far from tired, almost eager for what’s to come. Definitely just Lizzie’s excitement seeping into them.

That’s it, Sweetness. We are soooo Sleepy, aren’t You…?

She croons against the back of their mind, and they can feel her starting to shut their systems down almost forcibly. Lizzie’s never done it quite like this before, usually waiting for them to doze off before she started poking and prodding at them. But Flare can feel themself falling, heartbeat and breathing slowing down, muscles relaxing into the shitty folding couch bed that actually feels comfortable for once.

To Flare’s surprise, the scene begins without much preamble. Lizzie tends to go for something more elaborate, even the previous night’s escapade had some scenery and establishment of their roles— Flare, the entertainer, Lizzie making them sing for a crowd. But this… it’s a dark room, so dim they can barely see anything, a single nightlight casting a dull glow onto a red bedspread.

It’s… a hotel room? Or something like that. As their eyes adjust, they take in their surroundings, the luxurious bed in the center with little other furniture they can make out. The nightlight flickers and swells, drawing their attention back to the bedside.

A creamy pale hand dangles over the edge, and Flare’s gaze follows it up a bare slender arm to a shoulder and oh.

Lizzie is asleep, spread out on her back with a silky scarlet sheet draped over her, barely preserving her modesty. The form she’d chosen is… admittedly one of their favorites. She’s slender and petite, almost deceptively innocent, red hair falling in the most precious curls around her shoulders. Even though she’s sleeping, they remember her wide, doll-like eyes in this outfit of hers, a deep black that swallows her pupils up entirely.

Flare can feel themself throbbing already. She wanted them to be the bad guy, huh? Sneaking into her metaphysical room while she’s asleep, gazing at her pretty little body, maybe even touching it…

Hells, they need to touch her. Need to feel that soft skin, hear the sounds she makes when they shift the covers away. It’s so paradoxical, the monster that haunts their dreams sweetly shoving them into her place, inviting them in to take advantage of the situation she’d all so willingly put herself in.

Flare takes a half-step closer to the bed, reaching out to graze their fingers against the back of her hand. She twitches a little as they grasp it, drawing their touch up her arm and across her collarbones, feeling the dips and divots that don’t quite replicate normal human anatomy, but she’s trying her best.

They debate on if they should wake her up, slide into bed with a whispered greeting, wrap her in their arms and cover her with kisses. Knowing Lizzie, she probably wasn’t planning this set-up to be sweet and tender— she’s too impatient for anything soft and gentle, regardless of how much Flare would love doing that for her. They know what she wants out of this almost intuitively.

Flare brushes the blanket aside carefully, feeling the cool fabric against their warm skin. She’s stark naked beneath it and hells— that body, those small breasts and narrow waist that curves into just slightly wider hips. It’s like she’s wearing an invisible corset, strung tight to keep that perfect shape Flare can’t help wanting to wrap their hands around.

So, they do, gently taking her waist in their hands. Their fingertips nearly touch where they wrap around her. Flare feels lightheaded, their infested blood rushing south as she fidgets in their grasp. Lizzie turns her head in her sleep, making a quiet sound like she’s reacting to something in a dream. They stroke their thumbs against her skin, grazing either side of where her navel should be if she had one— another imperfection in her human facade.

They don’t have to wonder what configuration she’s chosen for herself a little further down. Lizzie’s bare beneath them, legs parted just enough for them to see the pretty pink folds that disappear between her thighs. The sight of it draws their attention to their own anatomy, which they can feel is undeniably that of a standard, run-of-the-mill human male. They stand up, pop off their armor to examine it closer, finding no extra bits or bobs, no techrot corruption, just a regular old dick.

Flare can’t help but laugh, keeping the breathy sound quiet to avoid disturbing their sleeping beauty. She could construct a perfectly accurate, realistic penis for them, balls and all, but forgot to give herself a belly button? It’s clear where Lizzie’s priorities lie, and they’re obviously falling into the egregiously horny zone this time.

She shifts again in her sleep and her thighs part a little further, giving Flare better access to that sweet treat she’d put together just for them. They’re careful in touching her, coaxing her legs to spread just a touch more, settling down on their stomach in between them. Flare just gazes at her for a moment, letting their warm breath wash over her, taking in her scent.

Lizzie’s lucky she doesn’t have a body in reality, doesn’t have this— Flare would have her in their sorry excuse of a bed, legs spread and tongue deep inside her every waking second if she did. They get to work skimming soft kisses against her thighs, feather-light and teasing, their hands working to slowly, gently, part her legs as far as they can go. Once they’ve got her opened up an enough, Flare trails their attention up to the inner creases of her thighs, just a few centimeters off from the perfectly flushed lips they’re so eager to kiss.

Their girl makes a little noise in her sleep, her face and breathing still so peaceful and calm despite what Flare is doing to her. They can’t tell if she’s pretending, but they don’t really care either way. Lizzie’s unwrapped and displayed herself for them like a present, and they’ll be damned before they ignore one of her gifts again.

Flare is careful with her still, using their thumbs to spread her just enough to place a tender kiss where her lips meet, right above the swollen bud of her clit. They listen for any sounds of disturbance and hearing none, they press further, dragging the flat of their tongue against her, feeling her twitch and stiffen beneath their ministrations.

Hells, they’ve missed doing this, and it’s even better now that it’s Lizzie, offering herself up on a silver platter for their entertainment. They could devour her, grab her hips and pull her onto their face, bury their tongue into her and let her grind against their nose, fucking drown themself in everything that is her, theirs, Lizzie.

But of course, Flare wouldn’t want to ruin her fun. So, they take their time exploring her instead, kissing and licking at every square inch of skin they can find before they finally delve inside. She tastes like something sugary yet spicy they can’t place, but they savor it nonetheless as they drink her in. Flare brings a finger to strum over her clit with their guitarist’s precision, applying just enough pressure to make her whine.

It’s more of a whimper, really, and Flare thinks she might actually be deep in sleep, if that was even a thing she could do while maintaining this dream space. Her hips rock just a little, the tiniest movement of encouragement, and Flare lightly nips at one of her outer lips as they rub her clit a touch faster.

She whimpers again, but it’s far from a pained sound. Little gasps and hot breaths are leaving her in fits, intensifying bit by bit as Flare picks up their pace, tongue finding its way back into her again. Hells, she’s soaked, practically dripping down their chin at this point, but they can’t get enough of how good she tastes, hot and sweet and like heaven.

“Nn, Flare,” she moans out, thighs tensing and trembling around either side of their head.

They stop for a moment out of habit, anticipating an instruction to stop or slow down or do something different— but it never comes. She’s still fast asleep, whining their name as they pleasure her, taking her apart with their tongue and fingers.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” they croon, words muffled between her slick skin and their busy mouth.

She’s playing so coy tonight, slipping perfectly into the role of the cute, innocent little thing, her noises and movements all so pure and kittenish. They have some idea of what she’s playing at with all this, the few times they’ve imagined her taking on a more submissive role floating back into their mind. Seems like she wants them in control, calling the shots, enjoying her however they want to.

Talk about a power trip. It makes their heart race and their cock ache; they can’t help speeding up just a bit more, practically burying their face into her folds as they amp up the pressure on her clit.

Flare realizes what she tastes like when Lizzie comes, hot and slick against their tongue. Maraschino cherries and Red Hots, two of the less objectionable things she’s been putting in their mouth lately, no doubt stolen from Velimir’s bar stock or Amir’s candy stash. They’re unable to resist moaning into her, drinking deep of that heady sweetness that makes their tastebuds burn.

If that didn’t wake her, Flare doesn’t know what could. They part from her almost regretfully, fingers lingering as they glance up at her.

“Oh, Flare,” she whines again, the weakest-sounding noise they’ve ever heard from her, face flushed and eyes half-lidded. “Wh… What are You doing?”

That takes them by surprise. No Lover, no Sugar, no Rockstar or Adored One… just what is she getting at?

Lizzie has the audacity to look frightened, tugging the blankets in a half-hearted attempt to cover up. Those precious doe-eyes are dazzling, her face free of any trace of makeup but still so perfect, so beautiful. They almost forget she’s a voracious man-eating horror straight out of any normal person’s nightmares.

Good thing Flare isn’t a normal person, this is a very sweet dream, and they’re more than happy to play into their little monster’s fantasy.

“Making you feel good, Liz,” they explain, sitting up a bit when she squirms away from them, blankets clutched in her hands. “This is what you wanted, Sweetheart?”

It’s a subtle check-in, disguised as a taunting question. Lizzie’s closed off their communication, leaving them to wonder at what’s going on in her mind. It always feels so empty when she does that, but it’s worth it if they get to touch her like this, feel her presence as something more tangible for a little while.

She’s quiet, biting her lower lip, like she’s conflicted about what to say, how to feel. Even fiddling with the hem of her blanket, a nervous tick. Who’d she pick those habits up from, they have to wonder.

“We weren’t expecting You… Not while We slept, at least…” she stutters out after a silent moment passes, so meek and shy.

She’s such a fucking actress, Flare can’t resist giving her a laugh. Their personal parasitic princess, acting embarrassed because they’d eaten her out and made her come in her sleep. How the tables have turned, even if she’s totally faking the bashfulness.

“Come on, baby. You knew what you were getting into,” they purr in that voice she loves, shifting to kneel on the bed at her side, leaning over her.

“I come home late from a gig, you’re naked in my bed, looking so pretty… What’s a rockstar supposed to do?”

Yeah, they’re getting into this now. Adding to her scenario, playing along. Flare wouldn’t do something like this in reality, wouldn’t do anything with a girl, or anyone for that matter, without a clear yes. And they definitely wouldn’t be an entitled guilt-tripping douchebag about it if they did cross a boundary.

But what Lizzie wants, Lizzie gets. That much is clear from the way her eyes cloud over at their words, the way she shivers as they lean in closer to her.

“You couldn’t resist Us?” She asks, batting her eyelashes, trying to fight off the grin that threatens to crack through her sweet and innocent persona.

“Not anymore, babe.”

Their words have a double-edged sweetness to them, a reminder that the Flare who’d spent so long fighting back against her influence, desperate to get rid of her, is now all but wrapped around her little pseudo-fingers.

Flare dips their head to kiss her, licking their way into her mouth. Their tongue is still tingling with the taste of her release, and Lizzie moans into it, trying to deepen the kiss even further.

“Look who’s eager now,” they tease when they finally pull away for a breath, arousal burning hot in their veins.

She squirms beneath them, the blanket having fallen away and bunched up at the side of the bed, parting her legs again in clear indication of just how eager she is, what she wants next.

Too bad Lizzie had put them in control, given an award-winning performance of timid vulnerability, and set them up with the perfect anatomy to use for what they want next.

“You’re going to return the favor first, sweet girl,” they croon against her ear, slipping off the bed to stand next to it.

They’re still exposed, their flushed cock an erect reminder of just how hard this is turning them on. Flare strokes themself slowly, savoring the sensation they’ve coveted for so many years, all made possible by the sentient guitar/shivering girl in their bed.

Lizzie shifts herself too, legs still shaky from her pleasure as she kneels on the ground in front of them. She’s close enough to the bed that it braces her back, her head falling to lean against the cushion of the mattress, and oh, that gives Flare some ideas.

Their hands are in her hair, catching on a few locks that must have knotted in her sleep. Flare uses their grasp to guide her towards them, letting the head of their cock slide against her closed lips. Lizzie gives them a little pout in protest, keeping her mouth firmly shut, and Flare laughs.

“What’s the matter, darling?” They ask with a raised eyebrow, one hand leaving her hair to cup her cheek, thumb rubbing at the corner of her lower lip. “You’re usually drooling for this, Liz.”

She is drooling for it now despite the hint of stubbornness. They can see the remarkable amount of restraint in her, trying so hard to stay in character despite the fact that she wants to devour them whole. It’s cute, watching her fight herself, digging even deeper down into the hole she’s dug.

“What if… We aren’t any Good? At bringing Our Beloved pleasure,” she asks after a moment, this pathetic little expression on her face that makes Flare burn hot.

They want to tell her it’s impossible, that she’s just perfect for them, knows how to touch and feel and please them just right, inside their body or out of it. Flare wants to take her face more fully in their hands, smother her with kisses, reassure her that no one’s ever taken care of them, loved them, tended to their every need like she does. Of course, Lizzie knows that already and is quite pleased with herself about it. Her apprehension is all just part of the act.

So, Flare plays along, sliding their thumb between her lips to part them, applying a little pressure when they’re met with resistance again.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll do all the work, you just sit there and look pretty,” they insist, finally prying her lips apart enough to press down on her tongue, “and keep your mouth open for me.”

They can see the sparkle of delight in her eyes. She’s trying so hard to keep acting, but she’s quick to open her mouth wide for them with a breathy pant.

“That’s my girl,” Flare praises, withdrawing their thumb to replace it with the head of their cock.

Lizzie gives them a few tentative kitten licks at first, her eyes falling shut as she drags her tongue against them. Even just this feels like heaven, but Flare wants more of her. So much more.

They shift her to lean back more fully against the bed, one hand still in her hair as they fill her mouth a little further, encouraging her to take them deeper with a low groan. It feels good, the pleasure overwhelming satisfying when coupled with the euphoria of being able to get sucked off in the first place. Flare luxuriates in it, taking their time in guiding her, until Lizzie’s cute little button nose is pressing against their abdomen and her mouth is stuffed full.

She moans around them, head pinned between Flare’s hips and the mattress, a clear signal that she’s ready for what they have to offer.

“Look at you, taking me so deep,” they croon just to earn another stifled moan out of her, “surprised you’re not gagging, Liz.”

Despite her best efforts to replicate the human experience, Lizzie can’t remember everything, evidenced by the little flaws in her basic anatomy. Sometimes she leaves out things that are inconvenient on purpose, like a refraction period or a limited range of natural human flexibility, or in this case, a gag reflex.

To Flare’s surprise, she delves into the waters of their connection for just a moment, barely dipping a toe in.

We want to be Good for You, sweet Lover.

Hells, she’s too fucking precious. All the elaborate performance, all her effort to hold herself back, let them play this out however they want… Lizzie just wants to be good for them, that’s all it boils down to.

“Aren’t you just the cutest?” They ask, the question obviously rhetorical as they steady their grip on her hair, pulling out of her mouth just a little before pushing back in.

Here they go, finally giving her what she wants. Lizzie takes each shallow thrust in stride, keeping her mouth open and her head back and her tongue teasing at their underside with every stroke. She feels like bliss, hot and tight and wet around them, eyes shut and cheeks flushed as red as her hair.

“That’s my good girl,” they groan, words rushing out as they fight against the urge to fuck into her pretty little mouth. Can’t give her everything she wants all in one go, of course.

“You want more, baby?” They ask and she whines around their length, eyes opening just a sliver to peek up at them.

Flare’s hand leaves her face to join its twin in her hair, getting a good grasp on those cherry curls to hold her in place. Spit drips down her chin, slicking the way for them so nicely they wonder if she’d intentionally increased her saliva production beyond normal human amounts. Wouldn’t put it past her, but now isn’t the time to question her ethics.

They set a pace that would be a touch too fast if this were anyone but Lizzie, fucking into her throat with a rough groan of delight. Hells, she feels so good around them, forgoing any sucking or tongue tricks in favor of letting them have their way with her. The normal human dick is a big plus too, though not half as thick or lengthy as the very abnormal infestation tentacle she’d gifted them in reality. It’s easier to control an appendage that isn’t quite so squirmy and flexible, the motions of their hips doing most of the work.

Lizzie’s whining around them, her wet mouth making each thrust deliciously noisy, her eyes rolling back as involuntary tears stream down her face. She makes such a pretty mess, they almost wish she’d had makeup on— nothing like smearing their girl’s lipstick and watching her mascara run in inky trails all over her cheeks. A bare face fits for this scenario though, only adding to her deceptive innocence.

“That’s it, keep your mouth open for me,” they instruct her, slowing for a moment to adjust the angle of her head a little.

Flare bites down on their tongue to hold back a shameless moan, concealing it behind a curse as they slide in and out of her with ease. She’s such a perfect toy for them like this, so easy to take and use and they know she loves it. Lizzie’s never wanted anything but the best for them, to be of use, to serve them, to make them whole, all in exchange for their acceptance and the little scraps of affection they’re more than happy to give her now.

“Can’t keep going much longer,” they admit with another moan, this one impossible to restrain, “want me to finish down your throat, babe?”

At that, Lizzie yanks her head away from them with remarkable force, crying out at the sharp strain the movement puts on her hair still wrapped tight in their fists. She’s breathless, chest heaving as she shakes her head in a firm, assertive no.

Part of them wants to remind her that they’re in control, that she doesn’t call the shots in this particular bubble of dreamspace. It would be so easy to tug her in by the hair and part those pretty lips again, but in Lizzie’s defense, Flare did ask what she wanted.

“Where do you want it then, princess?” They ask, a smirk spreading across their features. Flare’s laying it on thick with the petnames, compensating for how quiet Lizzie’s being. Well, how quiet she’s been— they intend to crank up her volume very soon.

She looks up at them, eyes still glassy and pupils blown wide, her lips parting to speak. All that comes out is a pleading sound, a nonsense mumble, like she can’t find the words to articulate her desires past how aroused she is.

“Want,” she starts, sucking in a trembling breath, “We want You inside Us, taking Us—”

They cut her off by yanking her upwards, leveraging the grasp of their fist in her hair. Flare relishes her cry of pain, redirecting her back onto the bed. She stumbles, falls forward face-first onto the red sheets, tries to brace herself on her elbows, but Flare isn’t having any of that. Their free hand shifts to grip the back of her neck, making her turn her head to avoid being smothered against the mattress.

“Pretty big ask, baby,” they croon against Lizzie’s ear, body bracketing hers with its oppressive heat, “been out all night playing, and you still want me to do all the work?”

Lizzie whimpers almost petulantly, and Sol above forbid she not get what she wants just this once. She tries to arch against them, pleading with her body, enticing them to give in and fuck if it isn’t a convincing display. She really knows how to do it for them, make Flare feel strong and capable and in control. It’s nice to have just one thing they can actually control now, even if it’s a dream, even if it’s play-pretend.

“Flare— Sugar,” she pleads, sweet as the petname she’d whined, rocking her hips again, and even if Flare is still in control of her, they lose control of themself entirely.

They pry Lizzie’s legs apart as easily as a pair of scissors, shifting her into a wide straddle with her upper body still resting on the bed. Flare explores between her thighs, stroking over her folds to make sure she’s good and wet for them— and she is, still slick and twitching against their fingers. Not interested in making her go a second longer without getting what she wants, Flare mounts her in an easy, practiced motion, the length of their cock sinking into her to the hilt.

It’s not like Flare hasn’t topped before; they’ve fucked plenty of partners and done a damn good job at it with just their strap, one of their favorite instruments to use second only to Lizzie, of course. But like this? She makes it feel so real, every nerve in their body electrified, every inch of skin searing and swelling with building pleasure. Every wave of sensation overwhelms them, crashing back down onto them like a rolling tide.

And the sounds she makes— oh, Flare, too much, too deep, can’t take it— but never a no, stop, it hurts. Their girl’s too fucking perfect, too good at taking everything they have to offer.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” They croon, leaning over her small frame to whisper against her ear. “I know you can take it, Liz.”

The condescending reassurance, their tone of voice, or some combination of the two makes her tighten around them, squeezing Flare where they’re buried inside her like a vice. It’s almost hard for them to pull out, limiting their thrusts to a slow, forceful grinding motion.

Flare can tell she’s getting close, practically falling to pieces in their hands. Holding her is like holding a glass too tightly, feeling it splinter and crack, shards digging into their hands. They ache to feel her shatter into a million sparkling, jagged pieces.

“Not yet, just a little more,” they grit out, half an instruction for Lizzie and half a reminder to themself. One of their hands moves from her hip to her waist, deepening the pretty arch of her back.

If they had to worry about logistics they’d be scared of suffocating her, the way their body is forcing Lizzie’s into the plush bed, her face smushed against the sheets. Lucky that they don’t have to worry about it, or anything for that matter. Flare is free to take their pleasure, to use Lizzie to wring it out of them, and she’ll yield to them all too willingly until they’re satisfied.

“Please, please, please,” she whimpers, muffled by silky fabric but delightful all the same. Flare could live off of hearing her beg alone, drinking her deep and devouring every drop of her desperation.

“Oh, you want it so bad, don’t you baby?” They croon, an insistent statement more than a genuine question, their words slurring together.

Using the hand on her waist for leverage, Flare pulls out as far as they can before thrusting back into her, hard and deep. Lizzie howls a cry that sounds like their name and a yes and a please and a prayer all at once, fisting her dainty little hands in the sheets. Her back arches and there’s a distinct ripping sound as her nails tear into the fabric, but Flare isn’t planning to come to a halt any time soon.

She’s babbling helplessly beneath them, nothing but nonsense that sounds like it could be pleading, but they can’t be absolutely certain of it. They can’t be certain of anything other than the tension building in their lower body, dangerously close to snapping.

“I’m gonna—“ Flare interrupts themself with a rough groan, “give you what you want, Liz.”

Something animalistic possesses them to bite into her shoulder blade when they come, pumping her perfect, twitching cunt full of their release. There’s usually a lot— Lizzie likes it messy, because not even dreams can be easy with her, but this is almost excessive. Maybe it’s because the form she’s chosen is more petite than usual, it just seems like there’s a ridiculous amount of release dripping down between her thighs even before they pull out.

Flare is well and truly spent, exhausted and sticky with sweat. Their girl is limp beneath them and it almost gives the rocker cause for concern, until her shoulders tremble with delighted waves of laughter.

“You played Your role so well, Lover,” she praises between giggles, still flopped face-down and knuckle-deep in the torn bedsheets.

Flare can’t help rubbing their palms along her waist, massaging up her spine just a little when she fully flattens out her body.

“Want the full Rockstar experience?” They ask, thumbs digging into muscle that doesn’t have quite the right firmness or give of a genuine human being. “I could always smoke a cig, put it out on you, then disappear.”

Not that they’d ever actually done that to a partner. Hells, they didn’t even smoke anymore to begin with. But if Lizzie asked for it as part of a scene…

“You are Not going Anywhere, Sweet thing,” Lizzie purrs, shifting to wrap her arms around their waist, her face resting on their bare thigh, “now that We have You in Our Grasp.”

She giggles against their cooling skin, and they can’t resist running their fingers through her messy, tangled hair. Wow. They’d really done a number on her, the sight of it bringing a grin across their features that Flare couldn’t fight off if they tried.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Liz.”