➥ PSL | devil in the suburbs

[nestingdevil]

It sat between two worlds; between the bustle of the city and the normalcy of an American suburb. A den basked in a devilish red glow - a beacon for everything and anything that crawled out of the proverbial 'Pit. A place washed out in wicked lights that seemed to draw them in like a moth to flame. Creatures from the dark, slipping from the winding road to enter those double doors.

The Devil's Nest.

Because the name said it all - there was no reason to hide there, no reason to put on airs, to tow that line between humanity and the opposite. No - all fangs were out, clicking against cheer-battered glasses and open with laughter. Stained with stale smoke and the after-dark criminals had their fill. All under the watchful eyes of a creature that shouldn't have been there.

That shouldn't have existed in the first place.

But there he was; smooth clad, tossing out drink after drink to the tune of dished out cash. To the tune of coin flipped onto the bar top and he thanked them with a wide grin. With teeth to set even the most-hardened of them back. Because he wasn't like the rest; didn't flinch at the sight of a stake, didn't hiss at the show of a cross. Instead, it was always that smile. That terrible set of jaws that made whispers: "He's not from here."

And they was right. The cruel hard truth, though the monster in question had no need to hide the fact. Merely laughed, spiraled his hand out and raked them in with a crude-cut hum. A sultry sort of noise that seemed to coil from his gut rather than his throat. That seemed to churn from within that horrible core of his.

Yet, they still came. If not just to see what the devil was offering.

Greed huffed through his nostrils, body bent over the battered top of a wood bar. Marks dotting the surface, a history written without words. Scratches that belonged to a more sinister lot and fingers traced the lines as he spoke. Shoulders and spine sinking forward as empty-socket shades swallowed his would-be customer. Reflected them back as a dare.

"Straight to the point, huh?" The homunculus spoke with a tongue at his teeth, a touch of flesh against those points and he made no hide of his nature. Desire and want poured into each click of his would-be daggers, every twitch of his eyebrow, and he rolled his hips against the back-face of his bar. Yet, the stranger in question watched right back; frightful yellow eyes matching that dare, but fangs bit against a lip. The edge of fear practically deafening.

"Not exactly human, friend," he started, even as the tip of his finger ran against the side of his company's drink. Touched the left-over dregs of liquor there, caught it against the skin. "-homunculus. Ever heard of it?"

Comments

[nestingdevil]

"Bingo."

Because there was unfinished business; dregs left behind with Rapture's untimely demise and it had left him with the same old tune. The desire for more was like a thirst unquenched.

And for avarice-incarnate, he had his eyes set on a right prize.

Still, he smiled. Sickeningly sweet and appreciative all the same. They were his; time and the walls that hid them made no exception to the fact. Loyalty still held bare and the Sin arched his shoulders. "I never did get what I wanted out of that little pissant from before."

It was a subconscious action. The writhing core in him striking to the tune of his nature and it made fingers dig into the wood frame of the exit. Etched nails there to make shoulders sag. To display a demeanor of laziness that was an entire farce and Greed tongued his teeth. Slid flesh against sharp points at the mere thought of it.

Because Rapture had given him a thousand promises; a thousand crowns to kingdoms wide open and it only made him hunger for it.

For everything this world and the next had to offer.

But he shrugged off the coming fever. Slowly peeled open his jaws as eyebrows coiled up above his shades.

"No - not interested in that. Found something a little easier to deal with, considering that our pissant of a friend has a good knack of causing a bit of a scene," a little jab at Vegeta's good graces and Greed pulled himself away from the frame. Yanked himself heel-over-heel up the rickety set of stairs.

"That is, assuming one of you doesn't mind driving."

[misterbrief]

"Shut up Keats. Keep that up and you'll be the one feebly hanging onto the wing of the plane after I've thrown you out the nearest window." A threat that isn't so far-fetched with a man of his demeanor and temper. Either way, it didn't matter; they'd have plenty of time for quips and death threats along the way. As it always was.

Shrugging, he lets Greed's remark slide off his back as he holds up his hand, two fingers raised to indicate a willing volunteer. If they were going to be driving anywhere, he'd prefer to be the one to do it. Not trusting anyone else to keep them from getting in an accident. "You're in luck. I just so happen to be versed with vehicles. But it figures the two of you would slow me up; I'm certainly not going to carry the lot of you there. The reporter here might just be enough to break my back. An impressive feat to injure a Saiyan with their mere weight alone."

[disbelieving]

"That might actually kill me." His hand settled over his chest, fingers spread, as a pose of how much he was wounded that Vegeta would actually think of doing such a thing. He dropped his hand after to tuck it into his pocket as he followed after. "'Course, that'd just cause the pressure to be lost in the rest of the plane. Not sure how I feel about that."

Keats took the time to tip his head up to stare at the sky, squinting at some far off object. He wasn't really sure that he could drive -- while he had memories of driving, he can't say that they actually happened given what he was, and so he was a little relieved that Vegeta decided to take the lead in this one. Though, his head snapped around (and then, downward) to look at the man.

"Are you call me fat?"