Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

Currently, Marvin is writing a very small-budget fully self funded movie called *Let the Right One In*, which will connect with *Underworld* and a few more movies released in 1999. I need an actress who could play Selena, but she needs to know how to act as well as look good in a corset and leather. The best options I have in mind are Angelina Jolie, or I could just let Kate Beckinsale play it. And who should be Marvin’s partner in this movie: Jessica, Scarlett, or someone new?

If you have any new ideas, please share them here. Kindly note that I can’t respond to you as they keep getting deleted, so join the Discord server.

*****

The idea of bringing a signed album back to the hotel was clearly a highly strategic move on Frank’s part—a perfect, thoughtful gesture designed to completely win over his future sister-in-law.

”Oh, and by the way,” Frank added casually, unbuttoning his cuffs. ”I already spoke with Marvin. Tomorrow night, make sure you bring that expensive, limited-edition copy of Kung Fu Panda with you to the estate. He explicitly said he would sign it for you.”

The sophisticated, ”I-don’t-care-about-boy” facade that Miranda had been meticulously maintaining all afternoon completely shattered.

Her face lit up with sheer, unadulterated teenage delight. She clutched the CD to her chest, let out a high-pitched squeal of excitement, and practically sprinted down the hallway toward her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Clearly, although most women—even fourteen-year-old aspiring supermodels—insist they ”don’t care,” their immediate, instinctive actions tell an entirely different story.

Frank turned back to Kris, his blue eyes softening with deep, undeniable affection. The playboy was dead; the devoted husband remained. ”Now,” Frank whispered, offering his hand. ”Let’s go back to our room, too.”

Kris’s blush deepened, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears, and she silently took his hand.

---

Miles away, in a different luxury hotel suite across Los Angeles, the city was quiet, but fifteen-year-old Beyoncé was wide awake.

She sat cross-legged in the center of her massive bed, wearing oversized sweatpants and a simple tank top. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint, orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the sheer curtains.

Resting on her lap was a portable Sony Discman, her headphones plugged in.

She had bought Marvin 1 the absolute second Tower Records opened its doors that morning.

She hadn’t stopped listening to it since.

As the ethereal, soaring climax of Battle Hymn faded out in her ears, Bey reached up and slowly pulled the headphones down to rest around her neck. She stared at the blank wall of the hotel room, her chest heaving slightly.

The sheer, terrifying magnitude of what he had created was rewiring her brain.

As an artist, a girl who spent ten hours a day meticulously training her vocal cords to hit perfect runs, she understood the mechanics of music better than most seasoned producers. And she knew, with terrifying certainty, that what Marvin had recorded on this disc was impossible.

The breath control. The polyphonic resonance. The ability to convey profound, devastating sorrow and blinding triumph without uttering a single, recognizable syllable in English. It bypassed the intellect entirely and struck directly at the soul.

Bey closed her eyes, remembering the boy standing by the window at the Roosevelt Hotel. The boy who had spoken to her in Shakespearean prose. The boy who had looked at her with ocean-blue eyes and told her she was going to build a kingdom that made Hollywood look like a dollhouse.

He wasn’t just flirting, Bey realized, her heart hammering a fierce, relentless rhythm against her ribs.

She reached over to the nightstand, picking up the small, embossed piece of stationery he had given her. His pager and cell phone numbers were written in that perfect, aristocratic script.

Bey slipped the headphones back over her ears, pressed play, and began to study the vocal runs all over again.

---

Back at the Ritz-Carlton, the luxurious guest bedroom was bathed in the soft, warm light of a bedside lamp.

The room was equipped with a state-of-the-art Bang & Olufsen stereo system. Miranda stood in front of it, carefully sliding the silver disc into the CD player.

Before pressing play, she looked down at the paper cover again, her fingers tracing the silver ink.

’Marvin’s handwriting is so impossibly beautiful,’ she thought, a flutter of butterflies erupting in her stomach. It looked like the signature of a prince from a fairy tale, not an eleven-year-old boy from California.

She pressed the play button and stepped back, collapsing onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Then, the music began.

A melodious, impossibly pure chanting voice rang out from the high-fidelity speakers. It was the first track on the EP: Hometown Scenery.

Marvin had layered his Incubus vocals to mimic the ancient, ethereal, and devastatingly natural magic of the Elves from his past life. The sound was crystalline, capturing the exact, aching frequency of profound nostalgia.

Within seconds, the luxurious walls of the Los Angeles hotel room completely melted away.

Before she even realized what was happening, Miranda was no longer in America. Her mind was violently, beautifully transported back to her hometown—Gunnedah, New South Wales.

She could smell the dry, red Australian earth. She could see the towering eucalyptus trees swaying in the hot wind, the vast, unbroken expanse of the outback sky stretching endlessly above her family’s farm. She could feel the rough wood of the porch where she used to sit as a little girl, completely unaware of the glamorous, terrifying world of modeling that awaited her.

Gunnedah was a beautiful, simple place. She and her sister hadn’t been back there in a very long time, swept up in the frantic current of photo shoots and international flights.

The sheer purity of the vocals bypassed her teenage pride. When the five-minute track finally faded into a soft, echoing hum, Miranda realized her cheeks were completely wet. She wiped at her face, astonished to find her eyes welling up with genuine, heavy tears.

”Wow,” she whispered into the quiet room, her voice trembling. ”That was... beautiful.”

She sniffled, waiting for the second track to begin, expecting another sweeping, orchestral-style vocal arrangement.

But track two—titled I Need Your Happiness—was something far more dangerous and fundamentally different.

This piece was not born from the innocent, natural magic of the Elves. In Marvin’s past life, this specific melody had been composed by a legendary, high-ranking Succubus musician.

Compared to the elegant, sorrowful music of the forest, Succubus music was engineered for one singular purpose: total, psychological subjugation through absolute allure.

When Marvin had first performed this song privately for Princess Diana months ago, he had deliberately suppressed the magic, keeping the frequency understated and gentle so as not to overwhelm her fragile human mind.

But in the recording studio, standing alone behind the microphone, Marvin had unsealed the vault. He had unleashed the full, unadulterated demonic allure into the master tracks.

The second the track began, a deep, throbbing bass frequency rolled through the speakers like liquid silk. It wasn’t mere sound — it was a slow, hypnotic vocal hum that vibrated straight into the base of the spine, awakening something primal and forbidden.

Then, Marvin exhaled the first note.

Then Marvin exhaled the first note.

Miranda’s body jerked violently on the mattress as if struck by lightning.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with ferocious speed, the sudden rush of blood roaring in her ears. The cool air-conditioning of the luxurious hotel room vanished instantly, replaced by a suffocating, prickling wave of intense heat that flushed across her skin from head to toe. Her cheeks burned. Her chest tightened. A heavy, molten warmth pooled low in her belly.

Involuntarily, her mind was hijacked. The innocent imagery of the Australian outback shattered like glass. In its place flooded a rapid, merciless barrage of dark, enchanting, and terrifyingly mature visions — phantom memories that belonged to something far older and far more carnal than her fourteen years. Flashes of tangled crimson silk sheets twisting around bare limbs... the heavy, heady scent of crushed roses mixed with warm skin... the slow, teasing trace of invisible fingers gliding along the curve of her waist, dipping lower, exploring the soft dip of her hips... the slick, overwhelming clash of raw, unbridled desire that made her thighs press together instinctively.

”Ah—!”

A soft, strangled moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her hands flew to the bedsheets, twisting the fabric desperately in her fists. But the Incubus vocal msgic was far too potent. It bypassed every defense, sliding straight into her developing nervous system like warm honey laced with fire.

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

Without realizing it, her hands began to wander — sliding restlessly over her own body as the breathy, hypnotic layering of Marvin’s vocals wrapped around her like invisible, velvet tendrils. One hand trailed up her stomach, fingers pressing lightly against the thin fabric of her designer pajamas, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The other drifted along her thigh, squeezing gently as another wave of lewd, vivid images crashed over her: the phantom weight of a body pressing her down into soft pillows, hot breath against her neck, the slow, deliberate grind of hips that promised pleasures her mind had already begun to imagine.

The breathy, hypnotic layering of Marvin’s vocals wrapped around her like physical tendrils, pulling her deeper into a state of flushed, breathless paralysis.

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, trying to fight the audio-induced hallucination, but it only made the sensations sharper. Her back arched slightly off the mattress as another low, throaty note from Marvin vibrated through her core, sending a fresh ripple of heat between her legs.

By the time the four-minute track finally, mercifully ended, Miranda was utterly spent. She lay flat on her back, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. Her designer pajamas clung damply to her sweat-slicked skin, the thin material outlining every flushed curve of her trembling body.

The silence in the room felt deafening.

Miranda slowly lifted a trembling hand and touched her burning cheeks. They radiated feverish heat. Just recalling the vivid, mature, shamelessly lewd images that had forced their way into her mind made her heart race all over again — her thighs shifting restlessly as a lingering pulse of unwanted arousal throbbed low in her belly.

She turned her head toward the still-spinning CD in the stereo, her face a mask of profound, terrified awe mixed with something darker and far more dangerous.

Is this really something an eleven-year-old child could sing? Miranda thought, her mind spinning wildly out of control. Why does it feel so... heavy? So hypnotic? So... sinful?

The teenage pride she had felt earlier that afternoon was entirely gone. Tomorrow night, she was going to walk into the Meyers estate and stand face-to-face with the boy who possessed this terrifying, impossible power.

Miranda pulled the blankets up to her chin, shivering despite the heat radiating from her skin. The hunt had already begun, and she didn’t even know she was the prey.

---

This is also the thought of countless people who are currently listening to or have listened to the album.

The heavy, white-paneled doors of Princess Diana’s private sitting room at Kensington Palace were firmly shut against the outside world.

It was late evening in London, and the relentless, suffocating pressure of the British tabloids felt momentarily distant. On the mahogany coffee table in the center of the room sat a massive, beautifully wrapped parcel bearing the embossed. Marvin had sent her a comprehensive, VIP gift package via overnight international courier shortly after the surprise release of Marvin 1. It contained pristine cassette tapes, a stack of CDs, and, most importantly, a heavy, limited-edition vinyl pressing of the album.

Diana bypassed the CDs entirely. She walked over to her vintage, high-fidelity turntable, carefully sliding the heavy vinyl from its sleeve. Audiophiles always swore that vinyl possessed a warmer, more authentic sound quality, capturing the microscopic, analog vibrations of the recording studio that digital CDs simply compressed and erased.

She gently set the needle down. The speakers emitted a soft, warm crackle before the music swelled into the quiet room.

She sat on the edge of her sofa, closing her eyes, a soft smile gracing her lips as the first track played. The sheer, angelic purity of it washed over her, soothing the chronic, gnawing anxiety that came with being the most hunted woman on the planet. Her mind naturally drifted to Marvin. Even thousands of miles away across the Atlantic, the memory of his impossible, handsomeness and his deeply comforting, ancient aura anchored her. He had protected her. He had understood her in a way no adult man ever had.

But then, the vinyl seamlessly transitioned into the second track: I Need Your Happiness.

The angelic, pure Elven light of the first song dissolved away like morning mist. In its place rose a deep, throbbing, hypnotic hum — a rich, ancient vocal frequency crafted by a master Succubus. It didn’t strike violently. Instead, it slipped into Diana’s body like warm, velvet smoke, curling slowly around the base of her spine and gently awakening every sleeping nerve.

At first, Diana simply sighed, her eyelids fluttering.

A pleasant warmth began to spread through her lower back, subtle and teasing. It felt... nice. Comforting, even. But as the first layered notes of Marvin’s voice entered the song, that warmth began to deepen, turning richer, heavier, more insistent. It traveled upward along her spine like invisible fingers tracing her skin.

*****

Currently, Marvin is writing a very small-budget fully self funded movie called *Let the Right One In*, which will connect with *Underworld* and a few more movies released in 1999. I need an actress who could play Selena, but she needs to know how to act as well as look good in a corset and leather. The best options I have in mind are Angelina Jolie, or I could just let Kate Beckinsale play it. And who should be Marvin’s partner in this movie: Jessica, Scarlett, or someone new?

If you have any new ideas, please share them here. Kindly note that I can’t respond to you as they keep getting deleted, so join the Discord server.

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