Loving the Succubus

Six Months Later (Picasso)

"Beloved," Marfa greeted, her grey cat eyes lighting up from Picasso's computer.

Because of their insane schedules-Picasso bounced between studios and Marfa was a musician-they didn't get to see eachother as often as they'd like. Thankfully, there was cell phones and Skype, so for six months they'd had a long-distance relationship.

"You seem way to happy to see my ugly black ass," Picasso joked.

Marfa laughed. "That is true."

They made flirtatious small talk, discussing how their days went. It turned out they both happened to be in Phoenix on the same day, so they made plans to meet up when both were done.

"Are you alright?" Picasso asked. He had noticed a sad look in her eyes.

"'Tis nothing," she replied with a laugh, waving a dismissive hand. "An accursed former lover, nothing to concern you. I bid you good night." She then smiled and turned off the computer.

Later, Picasso would curse himself for not trying to pry more.

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Picasso stared at his reflection in the bathroom, surprised at what he saw. Marfa had picked a fairly nice place for their first official, out-of-his-apartment date. Never did he think he'd ever be seen in a three-piece suit. He tugged at his tie, feeling it choke him.

"Let go of me!" cried a man with a heavy British accent from outside the bathroom.

"Move another fucking inch and I'll break your fucking arm!" snapped a woman's voice, harsh and authoritative.

Picasso raced out of the bathroom, to witness a striking blonde in a runway-worthy red dress holding a drunken Middle Eastern man in a headlock that would make...

Holy shit, that really is Ronda Rousey. Why would Ronda Rousey-of all people-be in Phoenix?

"Where the fuck have you been?!" Ronda snapped at Picasso, still holding the struggling man.

"I-I'm sorry?" Picasso stuttered.

"Your fuck buddy has been waiting at the bar for fifteen minutes for you! This dickhead-"she began.

"Where's Marfa?!" Picasso yelled, panicking.

"Being treated by EMTs," Ronda said, lowering her voice. "This dickhead I've got right here came up and beat the shit out of here as we were waiting for you. I was just keeping her company and he just goes up to her and cold-cocked her."

Picasso ran towards where the fighter pointed to, EMTs treating a crumpled body in what would have been a beautiful white dress underneath black lace, were it not torn, and not in an artistic way. A fuck-me heel of the same fabric dangled from one foot, the other missing.

He nearly vomited upon seeing her more closely. The dress was torn, and not in an artful way. The British man must have torn it in the front, because Marfa was bunching it up with one hand, the other dangled limply over the stretcher, clearly broken. Her face was so badly pummeled as to be unrecognizable.

"Shh, beloved," said Marfa with a chuckle, "I have endured much worse than this!" She turned to the EMT treating her, saying something in the lilting language, and the EMT turned to Picasso. The tattoo artist noticed the EMT had cat eyes like Marfa, but blue.

"Come, Consort," he whispered in Picasso's ear. "Lady Rousey will deal with the rogue."

Picasso nodded, too scared to ask questions, climbing into the ambulance.