all-cf-me

[all-cf-me]

Even more difficult than reasoning with his own thoughts is reasoning with Ed, but honestly that's no different than any other day. The matter of much more pressing importance is just how responsive Ed is, bucking up into Dodge's hand at the lightest touch like he's been waiting for it. Clumsy conversation aside, they seem to be on the same page and, while a sober Dodge might have stopped everything at this point to be doubly, triply sure, inebriation has calmed a lot of his neuroticism.

Most of it, anyway. Ed strips right down to skin and Dodge does the same, though the former is much more comfortable with it than the latter... the vulnerability is sudden and strange and invites the damage of several decades with it, Dodge's mind working hard to convince itself that whatever comes next will be a painful mistake. He settles back down on top of Ed and hovers there on his forearms for a moment, worry glancing across his face. "If anything hurts... stop me, okay?"

With that, Dodge dips his head and takes Ed's cock, tentative and shallow, into his mouth, once again guided only by what he thinks would feel the best. His lack of experience is obvious, but he makes up for it in slowly-mounting gusto, and Ed's taste soon has him breathing a wanting moan.

he shivers as dodge feels at him through his pants, hips surging forward into his hand. not like that, but then... how? at least he's quick to explain, before ed can get more distracted than he is. it turns out they're on the same page after all—erm, sort of. is that what you want? he seems surprised, but isn't that what they've been leading up to? that's what all his experience with pay-per-view has led him to believe, although the circumstances are a little different. for a moment, ed thinks that he's ruined the moment, but pulling his head up he sees that they've only pulled away to strip down more. tongue darting out to swipe along his mouth, he eyes the straining bulge between dodge's legs with hungry, animal lust. "i thought that's what we were doing?" the end of his sentence pitches up with uncertainty, but he pulls his own pants off as he speaks. "i don't know what you're talking about," he admits, finally completely naked. much better. this is how he always wants to be. "but it's fine. we don't need it. i've never needed anything to have sex."

[all-cf-me]

Well, Dodge says he isn't bothered about being in his underwear, until Maki refuses to make eye contact and keeps staring at him as if he's under-dressed. He shifts unsteadily from one foot to the other, the gun's muzzle minutely lowering before he steadies himself again with a little shake of his head - if anyone should feel out of place, it's this stranger, not him!

"I don't believe you," Dodge snarls outright at Maki's explanation, impatience rearing its head even quicker than usual: they've happened to interrupt a strangely restful night, and he knows that it'll take days to correct such a mishap in his schedule. "If you don't take anything, why trespass at all? Looking at your own things isn't good enough?"

“I didn’t take anything.” They stated rather calmly, hands instinctively held up even before they caught sight of the gun and the rather… sparsely dressed stranger. I mean, it’s his house after all and it is the middle of the night. “…and I don’t plan to. I never take things.” Maki tries their best not to stare, but they’re not quite good at it… nor are they good at eye contact. “Break-in is a bit of a stretch… I think you’d have to physically break in for it to be a break-in, no?” She smoothly avoids the accusation, “Nothing in particular. I just like looking. You can check my pockets or whatever... I don't really like to touch other peoples' things anyways..”

[all-cf-me]

She speaks, and it only takes a few words to remind Seth of their specific flavor of flirtation: little slights and sidesteps strung together into a strange tango, judgment and distinct bitchiness wearing a mask of manners. He doesn't even try to hide how much he loves it, thinking that it feels a lot like skinny dipping in shark-infested water.

"Honey, I am excellent at bribing aunties," Seth purrs right back, winding eel-like right through her mixture of insults to feed from the compliments. "Maybe you set this up yourself just to see me again... Hell, maybe I did, 'cause baby you should see how fuckin' stunning you are in the romantic neon lights of a miniature golf course."

Seth follows at her shoulder until they reach the first hole, a simple straight-away without any secrets; it would keep with tradition to let Gabs go first, but he's found that there's value in the strategic ebb and flow of chivalry. "You know I love the confidence, but let's sweeten the stakes a little, huh?" He drops the Barbie-pink ball, catches it with his foot, and casually swings the little putter: after a brief journey it sinks into the hole, and he steps aside for Gabs to take her turn. "If I win, you spend the night at my place."

` Gabriella stops just short of him, one perfectly sculpted brow arched like it’s been trained for this exact moment. Her gaze drops to the two garish golf balls in his hand, then slowly lifts back to his face with all the measured grace of someone assessing whether this is a setup or a very elaborate prank. “Miss Ryu,” she echoes, lips curving into a dry, amused smile. “How formal. Are you planning to propose between holes six and seven, or just trying to distract me with flattery before I crush you in neon-lit combat?” She plucks the ugly green ball from his hand with two manicured fingers, as though it might bite. “Soulmates is a strong word. Personally, I think Auntie Jae just likes the idea of me dating someone with all their own teeth. And who doesn’t cry when the bill comes.” But then, something in her posture softens—just a little. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a grin but close. “Still, twice in a row? I suppose that’s statistically suspicious. Either someone up there likes you… or you’re very good at bribing aunties.” She spins the golf ball once between her fingers, like she’s weighing more than just its plastic shell. “And for the record,” she adds, sidestepping closer to him as they begin toward the first hole, “I’ll take mini-golf over wilted arugula and awkward soup spoon etiquette any night. At least this way, I get to beat you with the date materials.” A pause. Then, playfully— “Try to keep up, Pops.”

[all-cf-me]

starter for @ofruinations

It's things like this that keep Dodge's optimism slow-moving and cautious, creeping out from the underbrush for a brief glimpse of the sun... it's never long before reality comes back, sudden, predatory, to snap it up again.

The alert finds Dodge testing the newfound freedom of power nullification (twelve hours of it, at least) and a bit of renewed confidence. He's just made it back home after a challenging jog around the neighborhood when the communicator on his arm vibrates, and, though he takes a moment to mop the sweat from his brow and catch his breath before reading it, the accompanying message swiftly punches it back out of him:

Mr. Ramsay, please come to my home office at your earliest convenience. We have something to discuss - in person.

He barely has enough time to pull on something more presentable before bolting back out into the street and down to the tram station. The trip is just enough time for Dodge to have considered every worst case scenario, and by the time he walks up to the front door of Adonis's stately abode, uneasiness is settled heavy in the pit of his stomach like a stone.

Dodge knocks, waits a moment, then knocks again. One of his hands slips into his pocket as he waits, thumbing the little glass bottle there... one last feel of them, he guesses, just in case Adonis decides to take it all away.

[all-cf-me]

"I will, doctor. Adonis." To say he'll be responsible is an understatement... Dodge intends to go home and, after locking the pills in one of his several secure safes, add the next week's worth of dosages to his calendar with timestamps specific to the minute. Not only does he have impossibly high standards for his own routines, but the fact that Adonis holds stakes in this one causes it to skyrocket to utmost, nearly religious, importance.

Adonis takes his hand, gives it a shake and, for a brief moment, it feels as though they're equal... like they've come to this point together. Dodge is relishing the hand shake until this thought flickers across his consciousness and it causes him to let go, yanking his hand back like he's been bitten. He must be careful, he silently resolves: careful that the pills don't make him forget what he really is. A mutant, begging for forgiveness at the feet of the only human who can help.

"Thank you," he sniffs as Adonis offers him the gloves, taking them with a noted degree of reverence. They're ruined for the doctor's purposes, sure, but in Dodge's eyes, they're perfect: a tangible, real reminder of progress, and that he might, someday, become something more than a lost cause. "Thank you."

END.

"Say that you'll be responsible with them. And live." For whatever he might espouse, Adonis certainly did enjoy the feeling of a job well done; Dodge would have less problems with his mutation, he had the building blocks of something involving the X-Virus, and both of them understood each other more. He might do unscrupulous things, and he might enjoy twisting the knife, but it's one of his life's more simple pleasures that this might happen. Adonis takes a look at him, and takes off his ruined glove, set aside on the table, to shake Dodge's hand. It's always so odd, the feeling of someone else on his skin—he'd grown to bear it from Edward, but still. Matching the other man's smile with his own, there's a bit of a laugh as he tells him his intentions. "While I appreciate the paperwork, and I do—I had hoped you would at least enjoy the fruits of your perseverance," he chides him teasingly, "Perhaps running after cable cats." His glove, now ruined, is moved over to Dodge's side as he takes off the other matching pair, with a bit of amusement. "Have these. I have plenty, and I'm not in the habit of keeping anything that's ruined," he says, shrugging. "Call it a memento for the occasion."

[all-cf-me]

Victor's touch is blessedly generous, glancing against his hardness and combing back through his silvering hair and drawing every one of Seth's strings impossibly taut. "Put it on my tab," he growls with a breathless laugh, one more item on a growing list of things dangled just out of Seth's reach... though they both know the opportunity to incur debt only encourages his bad behavior.

The ring locks tight around his cock and elicits the subtlest of whimpers up from his chest, but when he's instructed to use his mouth, the discomfort is forgotten. It takes significantly less begging than usual to appease Victor and briefly Seth wonders what he's done to gain such favor, but he won't press his luck: he's quick to discard the younger man's sweats and underwear and press the flat of his tongue against Victor's flushed head, the familiar, heady taste smarting back behind his molars.

"God, thank you," he groans like he's starving for it, lowering his head to suck at Victor's cock with fervor. He's distantly aware of the force tugging open his own jeans, but Seth focuses on the task at-hand. Any other attentive ministration Victor decides to offer would just be icing on the cake.

His eyes flash gold again, looking intently as Seth lays bare his desire, his want as the leash appears. Even as Seth is on top of him, Victor still holds all the cards, slowly inching his hand towards that hard cock, barely peeking through fabric. And still, he reaches for gold, rubbing at Seth teasingly, trying to give the man a taste of pleasure, all until he takes it away, and a matching ring forms around the base of his shaft. Just to prolong their fun, after all—never let it be said that Victor didn't think things through. "You can't afford to replace my designer fuckin' clothes, old man." He doesn't know if it's true, but the game is still played, barely barbed words pricking at the Council member's neck to get him off. His hand retreats, to stroke at Seth's hair and pull him closer, letting his voice whisper low. "But I'll pretend that you can, with your fancy new title... Councilor." Victor breathes, and pops Seth's buttons using his powers, quick little flashes of light unzipping his pants open. A thought pokes at his mind, conscious and feral, the taste of form beginning in his mind. "Come on, old man. Suck me off," he says, placing Seth's hand against his sweats, his own dick hardening as he rubs up against him. "Where's that worship you were talkin' about?"

[all-cf-me]

Royal's hard-edged tone is dripping with vitriol, but now Seth is putting together more pieces. The man across from him isn't some bar-dwelling thug looking for a fight, he's a professional... and, even more curiously, a professional responsible for the health of the general populace. He doesn't recognize Royal's rugged visage from any of the clinics or hospitals he'd haunted over the years (and a face like that definitely has a way of sticking in Seth's mind), but that doesn't mean much... It seems that Sol City grows faster than Seth deteriorates.

"Wow... Paging Dr. Killjoy, huh?" Seth chuckles, and hopefully the back-pedaling has earned him a little more wiggle room - he's still reasonably drunk, after all, and even completely sober Seth can't go two minutes without busting balls. "Well, I guess in some I-know-what's-best-for-you kinda way, I should thank you. So, what... EMT? Nurse? Firefighter?"

"you might wanna fuckin' remember then," royal spat. he doesn't believe for one second that seth is as harmless as he's trying to make himself seem right now. truth is, he's already noted in royal's memory as someone to watch out for. as far as why he'd bother taking seth to the hospital, well. it's not because he wants to, that's for sure. "trust me, it's not because i like you. but i'm a professional. and unfortunately for me, that means i'm required to." as a paramedic, even when royal isn't on the clock, he's never really off duty. and then there's the code of conduct he's supposed to uphold, but he's not about to mention something like that to a guy like seth. "and that's why your knife lives there now, instead of in your wildly irresponsible hands."

[all-cf-me]

Ed purrs so ferociously that the two of them seem to rumble together with it and, paired with his relieved moan, Dodge is easily encouraged. He ventures ahead with his mouth and hands, realizing he's eager for more of Ed's pleased little noises... he's a creature who thrives from praise and feedback and, though he may not know it, his goal right now is to get Ed to feel as good as he does.

Dodge trails his hand down his companion's chest and stomach and tentatively feels at Ed's erection over his pants, thrilled to find his own arousal matched. Most of his contacts at the Lady over the years have been women, but he feels like he has an edge here, exploring something more familiar. "Not like that," Dodge tries to explain, though he's finding coherent thoughts more and more difficult to find. He briefly pulls away, drunkenly fumbles at his own pants and strips down to his boxers. "I mean sex. Is that what you want to do? I don't think I have any contraceptives, but I might have some lubricant..."

wait is not a word that ed has ever been fondly familiar with, but he untangles and keeps himself still while dodge pulls the scrap of clothing over his head. it would have been better if he just didn't wear anything at all... but he knows that most others don't agree with him on that. why, he'll never understand... but he tries. all the same, it's a relief when he can press his hands directly up against dodge's chest, a ragged purr rumbling through him as he feels him up. thankfully, claws retracted. his own shirt is easy to discard, flimsy and torn through with less care than dodge's things. he can't help but moan with the combination of relief ( he hates wearing anything at all ) and the lips eagerly exploring his chest.

squirming beneath him, ed tries to find friction to relieve the growing pressure between his legs. there's another garment he's eager to discard... from dodge, too. "what?" he asks, confused, a little surprised—aren't they in the middle of something? "i sleep with you, hmmph..." he trails off, tilting his neck to give dodge better access; "almost every night." half a gasp, he continues, "can we finish this first?"

[all-cf-me]

Seth watches Ren as he speaks, now, looking for signs of discomfort or disappointment or some unspoken hardship pressing on him. It's something fathers do, he guesses, maybe even instinctively, but if he does find something - a furrow in his brow, a long pause between his words, restless fidgeting of his hands - what would Seth even do with it? They're leagues from having the kind of relationship where Ren would benefit from fatherly advice, so why does Seth still want to offer it?

"Well, hey, your mom... she's a smart girl," he says with intentional confidence, shrugging one bony shoulder and pulling a stack of documents toward him just to keep his hands busy. At first glance he can't tell if it's paperwork for the Council or the Lady, but it doesn't matter... it serves its purpose regardless. "She's found herself a nice place and she's doing just fine, I guaran-damn-tee it. Hell, she might even be looking for you too and y'all just keep missing each other."

Seth clears his throat, then, happy to change the subject. "Y'know, if you ever wanted to stay here at the Lady... there's always room for you. You ever see the rooms here?"

"No," Ren repeats. He wasn't sure if he had expected to find her in a random settlement along the way, but stranger things have happened, hadn't they? Now he felt lost and confused and...well, Seth didn't strike Ren as the good advice type, but who else did he have to go to?

"I have some...small assigned quarters," Though the room was cramped and rather uncomfortable, even comparing his beds over the past few months having been mostly borrowed or carried with him. "There's one place I could still look but..." Was he ready to face that? He wasn't sure. "Maybe I'll stick around for a little while first...if - if that's okay, I mean..."

Not that he needed Seth's permission to do anything, of course, but where he and Seth presently stood only added to Ren's uncertainty. Seth, certainly, hadn't asked for a son. Ren had never really asked for a father. And yet, here the pair were in the same room regardless of what the other wanted or desired. "I can be here. But not...here, here. If...you know."

[all-cf-me]

Admittedly, Seth is glad for a bit of a breather as he starts sniffing around for the red bottle Mal references: things on the couch were getting a little vulnerable. He's not one to balk at extending a helping hand, especially when there are favors to be gained, but there's something in how he catches himself looking at Mal that doesn't seem very... transactional. Seth decides he needs a moment, that maybe the smell of raw blood is making all of this seem more intimate than it really is.

"Alcohol pairs nicely with alcohol," Seth's rough voice rings through the two rooms, and there's the scuff of glass on wood as he pulls down the old bottle and sets it on the counter. "Oh yeah, this'll be great." There's a similar clinking as he retrieves two glasses from the cupboard (after a bit of snooping) and collects all three items together. "But I think we save the wine for next time, huh? I find that corpse disposal calls for something a little stiffer."

He doesn't bother with ice... slow-sipping isn't the point here, after all. Seth comes back and gives them each a generous pour, all but pressing the tumbler into Mal's bloodied hand with an encouraging jerk of his chin. "Drink up... it'll help. Then we load up the body and dump it underground, let the things in the tunnels do the heavy lifting."

Mal hums a sound of agreement. Sure, Cartright was as close to a textbook low-life as they came, stealing and undercutting folks to get his way. It was a wonder how he made it so far up the food chain, but he did it, and Mal was certain many people were left worse off in his wake. He knew that he shouldn't feel terribly torn up about it, yet there was still a heavy feeling in his stomach.

The reassurance applies something of a balm to Mal's thinly veiled distress, but it's fleeting at best. He peels his eyes away from the ceiling fixture to meet Seth's, finding himself wondering how much of the statement stems from first-hand experience. It's common knowledge that Seth has gotten his hands dirty on many occasions - it was part of the reason why he was the one Mal turned to tonight. Most people don't survive in Seth's line of work if they didn't have the stomach for it, but Mal wouldn't have assumed that it was something that came out of nature as much as it did necessity.

He gives the back of Seth's hand a squeeze before taking over he job of staunching the wound. As Seth retreats back to the kitchen, Mal settles back further into the couch, the cool leather against exposed skin eliciting a soft sigh with the way it soothes some of the burning sensation that seems to have spread throughout his body. "Upper cabinet beside the fridge. There should be a red bottle in the back that I've been saving." The plan was to save the vintage rye for some sort of celebration, but he supposes not dying would qualify. "You reckon it might pair with the wine?"

[all-cf-me]

"Hey, c'mon guys, I think this is all a misunderstanding, huh? Can't we just sit down, pour us up some of the expensive stuff and-"

The only thing Seth achieves with his attempt at peace is a hard crack across the face, sharp and disorienting. Already bloody and sore in the skeleton from their violent impatience, he goes down with it, landing hard on his knees... he isn't given a chance to regain his footing before he's grabbed up by the scruff again and made to stagger down a jagged footpath, dark and sandy and foreign.

This kind of stuff happens. His world is constructed from games, high-stakes poker hands of ego and desire and money, but the better winning becomes, the more misery there is in losing, and people can only handle so much of it before they crave violence. It's why Seth devotes so much of the Lady's income to armed security, and usually they sniff out the disgruntled debtors or the irate mobster assholes long before they reach the top... usually.

Sure, threats slip through the cracks on occasion but, contrary to popular belief, Seth prides himself on de-escalation, and it only takes a few soothing promises and the balms of hard liquor or sex to reach a compromise.

This one, though... these assholes have been planning this for quite some time, and they sound like they won't be satisfied until they have Seth's head on a silver platter.

He's thrown to the ground again, and this time he's left to writhe there a while, slowly twisting from his belly onto his back with a wet cough. Gritty, foul-smelled sand cushions him and, though he's never been here himself, Seth recognizes that they're somewhere in the Wastes... figures, the first time he's made it outside of that goddamn city and it becomes his fuckin' grave. It takes a few grunts and the taste of blood, but Seth manages to pull himself back onto his knees in the dark and face his shadowy, innumerable captors with a crooked and pink-tinged grin.

"Alright, motherfuckers... show me what you got."

God, I don't want to die.

@all-cf-me || angel & seth - the beginning of devotion.

` Time had stopped meaning anything long ago.

Buried beneath stone and soil, in a hollowed-out crypt now half-swallowed by the Wastes, they floated in a kind of quiet. Not sleep. Not death. Just waiting. Silent, nameless, alone. Consciousness flickered like a candle guttering in stale air—distant, disconnected. The weight of decades pressed down on their chest like marble, like memory. If they focused, they could recall everything: the heat of their uncle’s command, the iron tang of blood, the endless roar of battle. But they chose not to. Thinking meant feeling. Feeling meant remembering. And remembering meant regret. So instead, they listened. The silence of their resting place was sacred—undisturbed for who knew how long. But then, a tremor. Not in the earth, but in the stillness. Somewhere above, footsteps scraped against stone. Muffled voices, angry, sharp. The scuffle of bodies, the crack of impact. Pain—someone else’s, not theirs, but near enough to taste like copper on the tongue. They stirred, only slightly. A twitch beneath the ruins. A prickle of awareness along the old, scorched pathways of power. There was blood in the air. Fresh. Warm. Not a sacrifice. Not yet. But close enough to call. Something tugged at the corners of their consciousness, like the faint tug of a hook through deep water.

A disturbance. They didn’t open their eyes. Not yet. Because someone was bleeding. And someone wanted to live.

[all-cf-me]

"Whatever you've pocketed, drop it." Dodge steps into the room holding Maki at gunpoint, rigid as a hunting dog on-point. It's unfortunate that he wasn't able to pull on more appropriate clothing before addressing the intruder, but he's confident that he can handle this in just his undershirt and boxers... the pistol is the important part, anyway.

Dodge moves a bit further into the room, slow, keeping his back situated squarely to the wall all the while. "This isn't your first break-in of the night," he growls, nodding to his open window - only bait, of course, for the shadowy figure that's been haunting the city. Only a fool keeps his window open in these vulnerable hours. "What are you looking for?"

⤑ @all-cf-me

The cabinet swings open with just a gentle tug, revealing... just a bunch of clothing. Boring. Not even an old picture taped onto the door of some mysterious lover or something. Just some clothes. Maki closes the wardrobe again, making sure not to make a sound. Was this breaking and entering? …Technically, no. The window was left wide open so they technically didn’t break into the place. What was she supposed to do? Not enter? Close the window and miss out on whatever the hell was going on in here? She eyes the drawers next – who knows what kind of secrets they hide…

[all-cf-me]

"All of them, always," Dodge answers flatly. Admittedly a little distracted, he hears Selene before seeing her, but her queue of insults is too numerous to be ignored... he equips a scowl and reluctantly approaches, hands jammed in his pockets, and settles in for an attempt at polite conversation. "If I watched someone sneeze into a councilor's coffee, I would fix them a new cup, and I'm not ashamed of that. Isn't that the decent thing to do anyway?"

SELENE SWALLOW ☆ DODGE RAMSAY

"I thought I could smell some self hatred from around the corner," Selene wrinkles her nose the moment her eyes lay on Dodge. "Which one of your little council members are you guarding today? Are they scared someone might sneeze in their morning instant coffee? I can picture it now: Council Bodyguard Jumps In Front Of Cougher Civilian To Protect Councilmen. Put it on the morning news."

@all-cf-me

[all-cf-me]

If Dodge was amazed at the very idea of the pills, watching them work has him almost dizzy with relief, and a rush of numbing shock blooms from his chest and shivers all the way down into his toes. He doesn't imagine any circumstance where he'll need to spit into someone's open palm, but Adonis has done far more than give him the opportunity to exhibit bad manners... this changes everything. Even after the doctor confirms that he feels nothing, Dodge leans forward to catch a better glimpse, his jaw hanging ajar.

"I don't know what to say." It's true, but not because he doesn't have any words... it's that he suddenly has too many. Words of gratitude and adoration in between nagging doubts and little sparks of anxiety, all jamming up in his mouth at once until he can't properly express any of them.

Instead, Dodge offers his free hand for Adonis to shake, unable to keep the little smile from his face. "You're amazing, doctor. I'll provide a full report in twelve hours' time."

The acid is memorable. It hits his glove with an all but silent, but none of his hand is burnt through. Instead, the sizzle only bites at his leather glove, scarring and pitting it with the most audible of hisses against the silence of his office. All of it is bark. It's not nothing, and Adonis makes a mental note to monitor dosage timing when prescribing any future variation of the medicine that he gives Dodge. He has to admit, the man was good at following orders, like a good little soldier, and a reward was overdue. "Nothing." He takes off the black glove, scarred at the palm, and leaves it at the table before taking off the other to perhaps give to someone at Sector Ten—no sense in getting rid of usable leather. "Not even a minor acid burn. So it seems that you're free to eject fluid without harm," Adonis says, typing it down. "Perhaps a tingling sensation with organic material that could double as a stimulant, but that's simply conjecture." His eyes look at Dodge up and down, remembering his poor sink and the explanation he'd have to give to maintenance as to where there were holes in his floor. "Still, be careful." Adonis says, scribbling in his doctor's notepad. "Monitor any possible side-effects, come to me when they get apparent, and if you're not sure, perhaps bleed, spit or ejaculate somwhere synthetic."

[all-cf-me]

A length of light stretches out from the collar and into Victor's hand, the matching leash, secure and firmly grounding. These shimmering constructions may seem like a limitation to some, but Seth knows that their real play can only start once the collar and leash flicker on. Every good game needs rules, after all: Seth is reckless and tactless and greedy when left to wander, but with Victor's dominant confidence steering him, he can be sure that his efforts will be kept meaningful and rewarding.

"I wanna rip these designer fuckin' clothes off you, lick you all up and down like a lollipop." Victor's touch has been teasingly spare until now, so when he thumbs at the fly of his jeans and the black waistband of his boxers peeking just above it, Seth shudders into it, happy to show Victor the effect he has. The fabric there is strained with the rigid erection just beneath, but he buckles down, prepared to be left untouched for a while... balancing on that impossible edge between pleasure and discomfort is what Seth does best, enthusiastic to see Victor's needs met first. He hangs his jaw open, scraping his lower teeth gently against the crotch of Victor's sweats. "Slip your dick so deep down my throat that I choke and I wanna thank you for it. Please, let me show you how good I can be..."

"That isn't submission, that's a pilgrimage." His hand feels the leash in his grip, and it glows, the collar tightening a little to notify the man where the power lies, and light cascading off the both of them aimlessly. Eyes glow, the leash warms, and he feels like he's settling into himself. Victor sees Seth, eyes looking up at him as dangerously mischievous as his own. Cigarettes. He always smells like cigarettes. It's not something that he would have chosen, of course, but it always snaps him into focus. Cigarettes and sweat. Victor finds it intensely hot, like something that lights a fuse he didn't know he had before. A hand carelessly dips at Seth's shirt, pushing it up a little to show patches of skin. His own shirt had been lost to his bedroom, and even then, he only had his sweats left. Seeing as Victor never did like being at a disadvantage, he teases at Seth, wondering if that feeling against his thigh was a cybernetic or interest. "I think I'd like that, old man. Tell me what you want to do," he says, the free hand teasing at the front of the man's pants, thumb playing at the waistband. "Do it. Beg me. Maybe I'll even let you do all those things you want, if you do it well enough."

[all-cf-me]

Though he has the utmost confidence in Khadijah's combat ability, Seth can hear a chorus of heavy bodily thuds and the crash of something knocked off the wall as soon as he leaves, and his gait hastens. He can't help but imagine the worst as he rushes back to the Jeep, throwing open the door to find a suitable weapon: it's a very real possibility that he gets back to the skirmish only to find Khadijah KO'd, transitioning himself smoothly from bar-fight-backup to the last easy target left for an agitated, hungry vampire mutant. What the fuck happens then?

Admittedly Seth lets the thought still him for a few beats, but before he can talk himself out of it he heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Just a sec, kiddo," Seth tells Rosita, pulling a coiled length of rope from the back of the Jeep. "Big brother's still a little cranky, huh?"

He's back in the doorway just in time to hear Khadi's taunt, even manages to scoff at them as he hurriedly pulls the rope tight between his fists. "And to think, I was about to thank you for the pick-me-up."

Joking aside, he likely still will: not only is his shoulder healed up from Alvie's bite, but the candy has managed to soothe some of his chronic pain along the way, and Seth's strength is noticeably renewed as he loops the rope around Alvie's throat and gives him a sharp pull backwards. With any luck they end up on the ground together, Alvie collared and pinned with Seth's knee hard in his sternum. "Get his fuckin' hands together!"

@lolipopchainscw

the slam to the wall was more annoying than it was painful. khadijah exhausted from alvaro's temper tantrum and loss of self control—not that the vampire had much of them to begin with. but that's a story for another day. one the chef couldn't wait to pummel into the manchild later. and would they ever!

khadijah then tried to avoid the flying shards of glass from the picture frame that has just fallen. a few ricocheting, slicing into the chef's smooth, mahogany flesh. the ponytail brunette quickly realizing they have no choice but to play dirty, immediately kneeling alvaro in the privates with force full. not like his penis was used for anything but recreation, anyway. he'd heal. eventually.

❝any day now, seth!❞ hollered khadijah as they waited for the salt and peppered geezer to be of some help. ❝use that body for something else other than fucking!❞ @all-cf-me

[all-cf-me]

This sort of spontaneity is new to Dodge, and he's almost light-headed with relief at the way it all happens so naturally... he'd had plenty of time to speculate on the tram ride home, but none of his fears have ended up finding any footholds. Ed doesn't turn him away, there's no complication between their heights or mannerisms, and there aren't any awkward moments for adjustment or conversation or reconsideration. Only one thing leading to the next, one kiss leading to Ed poking claws through his shirt and Dodge smiling against his teeth.

"Wait, hold on," he urges, quick enough to hopefully avoid any more damage to his shirt. Dodge leans back enough to pull it off over his head and, for once, he throws it away without bothering to fold it first. He paws at Ed's, too, suddenly curious about what his counterpart looks like from an aesthetic angle (and increasingly thankful for the courage alcohol has given him).

Once Ed's shirt is gone, Dodge isn't disappointed... he dips his head down without knowing why, suckling at the planes of hard muscle at Ed's neck and shoulder. "Ed," he breathes. "Can I sleep with you? I mean, sometime. I know it's late."

clinging to him like a koala, ed is happy to pull dodge down as soon as they reach the couch. he isn't bothered about whether they'll fall off, or if either one is a good kisser or not—it's more fun to play around with the implications of this new treatment than to concern himself with minor details. he just wants to get as close to him as possible, share each other in all the ways they couldn't before. it doesn't matter that his kisses are more tongue and teeth than lips when the last time they had... swapped spit... it had ended in disaster. He doesn't even feel the faintest sting now! sucking in a breath through the side of his mouth, he hooks his claws into dodge's shirt. a lapse of judgement has him poking holes in it. "fuck," ed mumbles into the kiss, trying to pull his snagged claws from the material. giving up, he growls and refocuses on pulling it over dodge's head, instead. "help me get it off."