➥ 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

[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?"