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Despite everything, Doorman loves simplicity.
Mortal planes are mundane. Human beings, predictable. Yet, in their mutual dullness lies possibility. Versatility. Whimsy, both teeming and unapologetic. As a mere blip in the boundless ocean of space-time, — a vastness that insists upon itself, — Earth is nothing. At best, it’s a pit-stop some quintillion lightyears away from anything interesting. At worst, it’s a doomed ball of spinning mud. But here comes a great caveat: the life it harbors knows its destination, — knows death, — and grows anyway.
Ashes to ashes, dusts to dust, and yet: roses bloom. Animals evolve. People cling to fickle strands of purpose and, in the endeavor, become artists. Architects, scholars, inventors. Down history, humanity goes to war for war’s sake; screams glory and honor into Zeus' raptured skies; drink the sweetest ambrosia, shed the saltiest tears, bleed bitter, bitter blood. Up history, technology sprouts. With it, electric blues and crackling purples; nuts, bolts and malfunctions. Steam-powered industry. Politics and pollution. Commodification asks: “Is convenience a gift, or a curse? If I make it both, what will you do?” As society divides into factions and wings and us’s and them’s, it runs out of answers.
There is wonder. There is pursuit. There is audacity. From the ground, it all looks so grand. A different perspective is all Doorman needs to ignore the infinitely more complex cosmos. Far away, time unbirths and rebirths. Stars tear and splinter. Gods come anew. The old, old universe creaks in every language; spins the fabric of fate and existence; laughs at hubris, shivers at entropy. It does it so effortlessly, so beautifully, and he doesn’t care.
He’s a primordial dove staring at ugly baby geese: pitying, curious, purposelessly divine. Breathless space, breadthless void, the coiling multiverse—none of it matters. Right now, it's twelve o’ three: the time where The Baroness stops needing a receptionist, and instead demands a housekeeper. Shelves want dusting. Counters want shining. Floors yearn for his broom. Time to get to work.
Two efficient hours pass. With a garbage bag thrown over his shoulder, Doorman shuffles to the backyard. He’s still thinking about tomorrow’s croissants when he sees it.
Sorry—him. Drifter is a man the same way death, rabid wolves and maroon red are men. He’s vigor and cruelty and Freud's untamed id wrapped in last decade’s tatters. Shadow catches along his nose bridge and stretches upwards, highlighting eyes that carve into the soul. Among dumpsters and boxes, he’s a warning of a silhouette: all bulk, claws and desire. The moon watches him with a careful eye, aware of all he does, but happy to be his spotlight nonetheless.
In his grasp is the usual: mangled flesh, gashed clothes and two twin holes where an active neck once was. He drops him, her, or them onto the uncaring pavement. The defeated thud sends wings aflutter; the beaked friends perched on the rooftop scurry to the skies, pitifully afraid of the big, small, and grotesquely vampiric.
Doorman surveys the carnage, commits tangled viscera to memory. The human body has so many knobs and levers and molecular machines. It mends, metabolizes and discards. A pity Drifter rends all of that to a pulp.
He sighs, sets the bag down, and crosses his arms. “Go ahead, scare every finch in these bronze streets.”
Chipped. Smoky. Charcoal-adjacent. Drifter’s laugh is one of a kind. “Sorry ‘bout that, keep. Not a huge fan of birds.”
When, exactly, this fiend began frequenting his back porch, Doorman can’t tell you. Well, he can, but mystery makes these things more fun. The old, old universe sang and sang. Fate delivered a velvet ghoul. A failed attempt on Doorman’s life was the subsequent unravelling of his secret. Instead of growing bored of a god he can’t kill, Drifter drags corpses to his feet like a dog gives its owner endearing scraps. They laugh. They banter. They agree on the beauty of sinew, tissue and bone—although in different ways. Doorman likes order and systems. Drifter likes seeing the world burn. In both cases, it’s a fetish.
Last but not least: they fuck. Most at The Baroness call the act “making love”. It’s not that. They fuck.
Desire sparks in those crimson irises, sets fire to Doorman’s pseudo-flesh and primmed attire. He has no hormones to speak of, no chemical mailmen to tell his arousal to do this and that, and yet the feeling persists. Bubbles, broils. Fetches sweaty glimpses of last week, and the week before that. Faux blood rushes to Doorman’s freckled cheeks; turns a god’s attempt at humanity into the faintest blush; curves Drifter’s crooked smile at its edges. They dig this hole deeper everyday. Doorman pretends not to see the ladder.
“Let me guess, you like that which gives chase? Jackals, hyenas. Ixia’s kobolds, if you want to be fancy.”
Drifter shakes his head. “Much prefer apricot poodles. The pageant kind. Real cute, fluffy. All sorts of fun to mess around with.”
Doorman snorts.
Nebula blue eyes drift to the victim among them. Any concern for their name, family and legacy dies beneath pitter-pattering rain. To gods and murderers alike, empathy is foreign. An afterthought, an obstacle. Something only obtainable in crude emulation. Death slips past the semi-immortal and untouchably divine. Without its bothersome looming, its bleak reality is lost. To Drifter, the apathy’s a boon. To Doorman, — who hasn’t gone a day without wishing to feel properly, wholly, — it’s the worst hex.
Tortured fabric; the remnants of an apron. “Was he a busboy?”
A nod. “He’d been smoking out back. All giddy, like he was celebrating something. Probably got crowned employee of the week.”
“And for his triumph, you killed him in cold blood.”
“Without hesitation, cher.”
“I must say, you’ll be truly terrifying when you learn to…” he scans the mess of flesh, “Restrain yourself.”
“Nobody gon’ put a leash on me. Not you, not the world. Not even a damn patron.”
Doorman quirks a brow. “Feeling blasphemous, are we? You ought to watch your mouth.”
Drifter grins. “Make me.”
Sweat, salt, sex.
Drifter isn’t a small man, and even less of an easy carry. Worry not: unspoken strength wisps beneath Doorman’s slim form; thrums with mystic energy, echoes all things ancient and fantastical. Clothed save for his slacks, he holds the vampire against a wall. Sturdy legs wrap around his waist. Unkempt nails scratch pleasure into his back. In a life like Drifter’s, there isn’t much to cling onto. Seems like he’s the sole exception.
His… instrument? No, his cock rams into sopping, greedy folds. The flushed length of his vessel slams in and out; brushes against a womb first abandoned by time, then by choice. While Doorman lathers his walls with pre, Drifter groans. Laughs. Bucks his hips with reckless abandon; melts beneath mind-blanking euphoria; weaves lips and clashes teeth, shares spit and heat. Meanwhile, Doorman’s composure, — usually tightly wound, — frays at the edges. He pants and sweats; loses himself to the swinging of his hips and the pulsing of his balls; feels the exchange of seed and slick and dignity. Like a dumb animal who knows no better, he shivers. Smiles. Mates.
New York buzzes around them. Bristly smog accompanies aforementioned light rain. Soaked bricks link peak to peak, bloated tires venture distantly busy roads. Drifter’s choked praise joins the ambience. “F-Fuck, keep. You sure know how to make a man happy.”
Approvingly, Doorman hums against his neck. Perfect canines leave to-be hickeys. Nuzzled against Drifter’s collarbone, he catches the tune of rushing veins and dangerous adrenaline. Angry muscle composes Drifter’s frame. It beats. Screams.
The busboy lies somewhat forgotten. Rimy flesh disintegrates into blue-yellow specks, because half of being a god is wanting something to happen, and it happening. Even while he claims a throbbing mancunt, he can’t stand mess. The one between his legs excluded.
He’s hairy, Drifter. Scruffy. Unorganized. The scars beneath his pectorals, even more so. Ragged lines throw away any possibility of proper surgery. At the thought of him clawing away what had no use, Doorman twitches. Freedom is painful, but so worth it. Drifter scraped and bled for his own. That makes him more of a man than most.
Many gods never wrap their heads around it, gender, but Doorman finds the concept quite easy. A year ago, the madame in charge of the spa wasn’t a madame at all. Some of the staff forgoed their frills for sleek, shoulder-tight suits. Rather than run to the oppositely-coloured side of it, some mortals disregard binaries entirely; sometimes by way of choice, sometimes by way of being too intricate for words. Like most social constructs, Doorman’s impartial. He’s Doorman. He opens doors. Any categorization beyond that earns a polite shrug.
Furthermore, his vessel is not all too different from sheet metal. The world is an oyster to a hermaphroditic god. He can make himself bigger. Swap out parts. Have everything, or nothing at all. Give himself barbs, if that’s what Drifter’s into.
…What is Drifter into? Aside from the grisly obvious?
That’s a conversation for a night less depraved. Right now, Doorman barely has any words to give. Drifter rasps, croaks and whines in that signature Cajun accent; stammers “Mmnf, that’s it, fuck me like a goddamn dog,” into the midnight air. Heat coils in his loins, tighter, hotter, tighter, hotter—until he’s writhing, glassy-eyed, and convulsing so wonderfully around the god inside of him. Doorman’s soon to follow; the breakage of his voice’s Brookish-British notes is warning enough. He comes with a strangled grunt, winds undone with hot spills of seed. They tremble with mutual depravity; two fools who know better, and do worse.
As they calm down, Drifter kisses him again. It’s soft in a way neither of them are human enough to admit. It’s something out of a crude dark romance, one where everyone who’s supposed to lose lives happily ever after.
By the time the busboy’s fully atomized, Doorman slinks out of him. Unempathetic, but not cruel, he helps Drifter settle onto his feet. As he regains his balance, Doorman suppresses a hideously possessive comment. Something about god-mortal relations and all their… contractual quirks.
Before Drifter can just leave like that, — Doorman can’t believe it, either, — he materializes a few damp rags. Cheating, technically, but he’ll let himself off the hook. Drifter begrudgingly takes them, then wipes himself down. The occasional sud rolls down his sculpted thighs.
He gestures to what’s left of the busboy. “Yet again, I clean up for you.”
Drifter grins. “Good thing I know just how to repay ‘ya.”
With a smile, he rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you that.”
The moon hangs high, but the sky’s shift in hue winks at the approaching sun. Doorman turns towards the backyard door, while Drifter begins to escape into the night.
“Always good seeing you, keep.”
“Unfortunately, the feeling’s mutual,” he teases, back to normalcy and chores and tea before bed.
Drifter soon disappears beneath shadow, gone for who knows how long. After taking out the trash, Doorman returns to the reception desk.
Well, that wasn’t very simple at all.
