#mosquitos are of the devil

[buckys-baby-boy]

Me (talking about mosquitos): I don't care if their babies are hungry, I like my blood.

[jaypentaghast]

my hc is that Daniel and Armand would sleep in a coffin instead of a bed not just because of the added protection or because they like to cuddle, but also because Daniel thinks sleeping in a coffin is cool as fuck

[polarisbibliotheque]

Dante & Vergil with their s/o hunting bloodthirsty mosquitoes (+Nero with Kyrie doing the same)

Pairings: Dante x Reader; Vergil x Reader; Nero x Kyrie Summary: Oh, summer. Heatwaves, short clothes, ice cream... And mosquitoes. A human hunting down a mosquito is one thing, but a half-demon? Well, those little hellish beings better be ready for it. Author's notes: You're probably thinking yours truly lost all her sanity, and you're probably right. It's the second day of spring here where I live and it's so freaking hot, the only thing I've been able to eat the last few days was ice cream. It's usually hot as hell here in Brazil, but not this time of the year - December/January/February are the most unbelievably hot months in my city. And, of course, the mosquitoes have to rise from hell itself to buzz in your ears while you try to sleep and suck your blood, ginving you terrible rashes in the morning. I killed four of them the past two days and yesterday, I had to enlist my sister to help hunt one of them down. This little fic might have something to do with that incident xD

I had to write something and laugh at all those goofs trying to be functional normal humans. That's it. It's all ridiculous fluff and laughs while melting from too much heat, hope you guys enjoy ^^

Dante

“Ya know, if ya clap those really fast, you might summon a demon.”

You just looked back at Dante with murder in your eyes.

The red devil stood by the stairs, having his arms crossed and leaning by the guardrail, that characteristic grin spreading across his lips.

You wanted to throw the flip flops in your hands right at his face – maybe that would get rid of that insufferable cocky smile.

Sometimes you understood Vergil in a soul level.

“If said demon decimates the freaking mosquito who’s been testing my sanity for the past hour, I’m all in.” You turned your eyes back to the ceiling, searching for that single little thing that took peace away from you that day.

The shop wasn’t the most comfortable place in the world, that you had to admit, but the last couple of days were hotter than the layers of fire in Hell itself – Vergil would argue, but even he realized it wasn’t wise to discuss with you when you were melting faster than an ice cream on asphalt.

The heat, however, brought along the mosquito wave.

Hence why you were on the top of Dante’s desk, barefoot, sporting your peak summer style, flip flops ready to kill. Hearing Dante making fun of that situation wasn’t really aligned to your mood at that moment.

“Eh, already…?” Dante still had the smile plastered on his lips, casually approaching the desk. He was one to talk: given how hot it was, he was wearing only his pants, completely barefoot and shirtless – and even then, you questioned how he could walk around with those heavy, black pants without falling apart. “Thought these little fuckers would take a lot more time to appear.”

“Well, apparently they thought the same and figured a surprise attack would be more efficient.” You just heard his giggle as you kept on looking everywhere near the ceiling, round and round the desk. Dante rested his arms on it, casually looking up to watch you.

He couldn’t deny, it was funny. All that made him smile and relax: it was so mundane, so… Human. To think one day he’d be at his shop with his most beloved being in all dimensions, worrying about heatwaves and nagging mosquitoes; watching as you practically danced around on his desk, hunting mosquitoes with all the might in the world. As if you both didn’t hunt demons for a living.

As if life was just like that… Perfectly mundane.

“You give’em more credit than they deserve, babe.” Dante leaned his head in one of his hands, watching you with dreamy eyes. At the peak of your annoyance, you never thought the son of Sparda would look at you so lovingly – then again, he wasn’t an ordinary man.

“Oh, I don’t think so, hot stuff.” Your answer was mindless, making Dante open a huge, radiant smile, sparkling as much as his eyes. “Those things come directly from the layers of Hell, I’m certain of it.” You finally put your arms down, looking back at Dante and finding him with that unexpected expression. “What…?”

“You called me hot stuff, hot stuff.” He winked back, making you realize your ‘mistake’.

It wasn’t really a mistake. But Dante would definitely become even more insufferable with that.

“I blame the mosquitoes from Hell.” Your answer was ridiculous but sure, making Dante burst into laughs as he circled the table to sit on his big chair.

“That’d be a great name for a metal band. The Mosquitoes From Hell.” He laughed even more, resting his feet on a small spot on the table, making sure it wouldn’t interfere with your hunt.

“There you go. You, Verge and Nero can play together now.” You didn’t have much fun in your voice, going back to searching your nemesis in the air. Dante snorted a laugh, knowing you were joking – even if you were too focused to make it obvious.

“Dressed as vampires, it’d be perfect!”

But you couldn’t remain too serious around Dante for a long time. As soon as he added that, you closed your eyes, resting your wrists on your waist, letting out a sigh along a laugh. Imagining them all dressed as vampires, playing together as mosquitoes from Hell was too much – Dante now had your attention, beating the rogue mosquito you couldn’t find anymore.

You eyed him back, having a half smile on your lips. Dante was relaxed as he could be, his arms on the back of his head, helping him rest as he watched you with all the interest in the world.

“C’mon. I’d be one hell of a vampire!” Once again, he had that smile on his lips – sprinkled with a little more happiness now that you were into it.

“You’d be the sexiest one for sure, Mr. it’s-too-hot-to-wear-shirts.” You pointed back at him with one of the flip flops still in your hand, making Dante smile even more – a little blushed, but that could be because of the heat. “Dante!”

Without thinking twice, he caught your hand and pulled you to him, making you both rock on the chair violently as you tried not to end up on the floor. But Dante was strong and used to a lot more difficult tricks, having you on his lap, both legs secured by one of his hands on his right side. You had to let go of the flip flops, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, as both of you laughed.

“A reckless vampire too!” You finally put some distance between your faces as you were finally settled, finding Dante’s blushed cheeks as he laughed while still looking at you with adoration in his eyes. “Well, well. You got my attention now, cowboy.”

If only Dante knew how much you loved seeing him like that – completely human, vulnerable, having fun, as if none of the heavy burdens from his past weighted on his soul anymore.

“I’m happy, then. I was feeling a little ignored, babe.” He chuckled back, still blushing. Whenever it was hot like that, Dante had a tendency to be as red as an apple – and you didn’t complain. In a certain way, it was cute. As cute as a half-demon son of Sparda could be.

“I’m never ignoring you, babe.” You murmured, brushing some of his stray white hair away from his eyes, giving room to those beautiful skies that always allowed you to see his soul. Dante would always allow you to see him like that. “You better be ready for some undivided attention.”

“Hmmm, I could use a little o’ that…”

You barely waited for Dante to finish his sentence, catching his lips in a slow kiss. Dante rested one of his hands on the back of your neck, after brushing some of your hair back.

It was hot as Hell, yes. But not even that would stop you from loving your red devil.

Only one thing ever could.

mmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEppppPPPPP!

“Fuck, you weren’t kiddin’…!” Dante immediately let go of your lips, having the peak of annoyance in his beautiful blue eyes. “Where’s that little shit?! Did you hear it too?!”

“That’s precisely what I’ve been through for the last hours, my beloved.” You had the most annoyed smile plastered on your lips, eyes closed as if you were trying to maintain yourself calm. “I told you. When you least expect it, that spawn from Hell will meep furiously in your ears, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh, there is.” Now Dante put you aside, taking your flip flops and climbing on the desk. “I’m gonna obliterate that lil’ bastard!”

“Now that I’d love to see.” Oh, how tables had turned. There you were, sitting on his big chair, arms crossed, cocky grin in your lips, watching that brick house of a man using his enhanced demonic senses to find the darn mosquito. “Who would’ve known. Good to deal with demonic pests and mundane pests.”

“Oh, look who’s bein’ all funny now!” Dante glanced you again, but he himself couldn’t refrain from laughing. “Guess I’m the full package, huh?”

“That just makes you hotter, if you wanna know.” You had a matter-of-fact tone, leaning back on the chair and resting your feet on the table. “Nothing like a man who can fight and love like Aragorn as well as cook some damn good potatoes and look after the house like Samwise Gamgee.”

“You know what they say, get yourself a man who can do both. Found ya!”

You could swear Dante’s voice had a tinge of his trigger distortion as the red devil finally found his foe flying around his head. Dante tried a few slaps, but the mosquito was too close for him to be able to kill it. Using the flip flops to fan it away from him, you both lost the mosquito for a while, remaining quiet. Dante used all of his senses to finally see it nearing the couch – with a deadly aim, he one-shot his pray with your flip flop, too fast and lethal for the thing to run away.

The mosquito was no more – its remains were glued on the sole of your flip flop in a stain of blood.

“That was so hot.” You were mesmerized and a little bit jealous of his abilities not only to hunt demons but now, to hunt mosquitos as well. Dante really was the whole package.

“I’m startin’ to question your definition of hot, babe.” Dante let out a good laugh, sitting on the edge of the desk, legs dangling by your side.

“Everything you do, basically.” You shrugged, getting up from the chair to be at least almost his size. Standing between his legs, you wrapped your arms around his neck, ruffling his soft white hair back in order to see his eyes – those eyes you loved so much, so vulnerable and loving towards you. “Thank you so much for saving my desperate human soul, hot stuff.”

“I’m always at your service, pretty eyes.” Dante’s answer was almost a murmur as he leaned to catch your lips with his one more time. “No interruptions this time.”

You laughed between his words and kisses, ready to spend the rest of the night loving him unconditionally.

That is. If you both didn’t hear another approaching MEEP into your ears.

“You gotta be kidding me.” You sighed, throwing your head back.

“Get all the shoes, babe. Those lil’ shits have no idea what they got themselves into.”

Of course, you both had other plans for that night – involving a lot of love, kisses and giggles between you, as time stopped and you could enjoy yourselves, even with that relentless heatwave. The night was spent, though, with you both viciously hunting mosquitoes, keeping scores, making bets between yourselves, drinking beer and eating the leftover cold pizza in the fridge.

It wasn’t what people would consider a perfect evening – but, whenever you were together, things were certainly a lot more entertaining. As you and Dante took refuge in his room, finally getting rid of all the mosquitoes, you lied tiredly in each other’s arms, laughing about your hunt that night, until you fell asleep without a single meep to wake you up.

And that, you would say, was perfect.

Vergil

“I need to enlist your help for a mission, my love.”

Vergil was immediately serious. It was funny how you could watch him change his demeanor – you once told Dante it was like when Marilyn Monroe put on her persona and suddenly people were aware she was there and Dante never allowed his brother to have a single moment of peace upon knowing that.

But it was true. It took some time, but Vergil slowly allowed his shoulders to rest relaxed whenever you were around. His eyebrows weren’t as harsh, his jaw wasn’t tensed all the time. You could see how his forehead remained smooth, how his long hands rested calmly somewhere instead of constantly gripping some invisible weapon. His breath turned slower and smoother, his focus allowing him to plunge completely into his beloved books instead of remaining always with a steady eye on his surroundings.

Whenever you were around, Vergil was safe – of that, he was sure. He had his moments of slipping up, of having his survival instincts make him suddenly tense up and remain vigilant. But you managed to bring a peace to him he never thought he would experience before – and Vergil always allowed himself to slowly, very slowly, relax again.

When you were serious, though, survival-mode Vergil came back to the surface: shoulders tensing, eyes turning into steely blocks of ice, hands closing in fists, gazing you intently while waiting for anything to suddenly appear so he could kill it with just a glare. It was his famous ‘dark aura’ as you called, and not even Dante had that – it was Vergil’s special power and it could make the bravest of demons run away with just a stare.

“What happened?” Vergil’s voice was cold and low, carrying not only all his worry, but his rage.

“The worst creature from Hell has ascended to test us.” You spoke solemnly but there was something quite not right with your tone. Nevertheless, Vergil was even more weary: he was ready to void-cut your way to Nero’s place so you could be safe while he dealt with whatever it was that decided to haunt you. “There’s a huge mosquito in the bedroom. I can’t work properly and, trust me, we will never get a good night of sleep with that thing buzzing around.”

“A… Mosquito…?” Now Vergil slowly crossed his arms, looking down at you. He still had his shoulders tense, jaw locked and stoic look in his eyes, but you knew those would water down after a while – the most important thing was the ‘dark aura’: as soon as he realized you were both safe and there was nothing to worry too much about, it vanished just like Marylin Monroe did whenever she didn’t want to be recognized.

It was impressive, really.

“Yes. And don’t you dare mock me.” You pointed right at him as soon as it seemed Vergil was ready to scold you for being foolish – something that looked quite similar to when he was about to go in a fight. “You can be my guest and try to sleep with the mosquitoes, I’ll sleep on the couch if I need too. But those things will not rob me of my sanity.”

“Hmmm. It’s been a while I don’t see one…” With those words, Vergil followed you to your shared bedroom, having just come out of his shower into that mess. “It makes sense. I believe they come out when the weather is hot, right…?”

“Oh, c’mon. You have to have these little things in Hell. It’s practically a mini-demon spawn with wings and tiny horns imbued in it to drive you crazy.” As soon as you finished your description, Vergil had to close his eyes and do his best to not snort a quick laugh – something he wasn’t really successful at. “You can’t possibly make me believe those weren’t made by the forces of evil to suck blood and endlessly annoy all living beings.”

“We have worst in Hell.” Vergil’s look at you was still strict, but his silver eyes had a tinge of care. He would never admit out loud – and he almost wouldn’t admit even to himself – but the way you talked, the way you eloquently described things to amuse not only him but yourself as well always seemed adorable to Vergil.

You, in the other hand, eyed him with notes of annoyance while resting your hands on your waist. You were the face of the summer that day, having seriously considered being only in your underwear during a few moments, completely out of not being able to tackle the sudden heatwave. Vergil had his dark pajama pants on, his torso covered by a white sleeveless shirt, completely barefoot and his hair slicked back – still wet from the almost cold shower he just took.

Whenever you questioned his heat resistance – afraid that he would die from the heatwave out of not wanting to show too much of his skin ‘like his stupid brother’ all the time – Vergil would just glare you and answer with ‘I’ve had worse”.

You knew he was talking about Hell. In a way, Vergil was quite different than everyone else because of all the things he got used to or desensitized in Hell – heat was only one of them. Vergil could go days without eating, without sleeping, he could endure a lot of pain and dismiss lethal wounds to keep on fighting, and so on… But his sense of taste was also a lot more sensitive, specially regarding sweet foods, as well as his sense of smell – when it came to delightful scents Vergil could notice them a mile away but he could also feel sick from being overwhelmed after a while; with foul scents, though, he had a higher tolerance, getting used to them after only a few seconds. Soft textures and lullabies could also get him by surprise, making him always wonder if there was something hidden behind those.

You could make a list of things that Vergil reacted differently or had been desensitized after his long time in Hell – and the heatwave from that day was certainly one of the items in your list.

“Well… Where is it?”

“It was on the ceiling. I climbed up on the bed trying to reach it, but it’s too far away for me.” You sighed, looking back at him. “I don’t know where it is now. We’ll have to hunt it.”

“You are aware that climbing furniture is very dangerous, right?” Vergil spoke slowly, in the same rhythm his steps casually walked around the bedroom.

“Oh, yes. I hunt demons for a living, but climbing a bed to kill a mosquito is going to be my downfall.” Having your flip flops already on your hands, you couldn’t refrain from answering him with sarcasm.

“Even Achilles had his blind spots.” And as much as you hated it, you had to recognize when Vergil was right. “It will take too long to find it this way. It’s easier if we allow it to come to us.”

“Hmmm… That’s a very good idea, hadn’t thought of that before.” You stopped by his side, both of you observing the room with smart eyes.

“You once mentioned they are attracted to breathing.” Vergil looked back at you, making you nod in return. With that confirmation, he started breathing heavily in order to attract the mosquito.

“Good idea. I’m going to turn off the lights too, they seem to leave wherever they are in search for another light source.”

Vergil just agreed with his head as you turned off the lights and stopped by his side, both of you breathing heavily, trying to lure your prey out of its hiding spot.

In all his life, after all he had done, all he sacrificed and all the souls he destroyed – including his own – Vergil never thought he would be doing something so… Ordinary. Stupid even. There were you, in the dark, breathing weirdly to attract a simple mosquito in order to give you some peace of mind.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, even if a little bit. If he could wish for something, he would wish for ordinary days with you for the rest of his life. Dealing with broken showers in the bathroom, fixing a leaking sink in the kitchen, having all the lights go out and depend only on candles, sit by your side reading thousands of recipes trying to understand why a pie backfired in the oven… All painfully mundane things, but so human. So heartwarming to the soul.

It was a kind of peace Vergil knew he did not deserve after all his actions – after all the blood he had shed. But it was something for him to hope for; and human hearts always kept hope inside even if it was an unlikely sort of hope, right?

As you turned on the lights once more, you and Vergil remained with your breathing technique – but none of you could see even a wing of the mosquito. After a few seconds, you had to look at each other.

“We look quite ridiculous, don’t we…?” With your question, not even Vergil could keep serious – both of you started laughing, shaking your heads in unison.

“We can always wait and see if it appears again.”

But as soon as Vergil let those words out of his lips, both of you picked up the characteristic buzzing of a mosquito around the room. Turning your heads immediately, you could see how Vergil had his hunting glare on: carefully scanning his surroundings, the mosquito wouldn’t escape the vicious Dark Slayer.

“Over there!” You threw one of your flip flops towards it, missing for just a little bit.

The shoe was followed by a small, bright blue summoned sword – and that one didn’t miss.

“Wow. Who would’ve guessed, summoned swords have domestic purposes as well.”

“They are very useful for a great number of things.” Vergil shook his head, letting out a breathy small laugh. But then, his hunting eyes were back. “Did you hear that…?”

“What…?” You froze in place, glancing around the bedroom, trying to listen to what he had picked up. Vergil took one of his fingers to his lips, signaling for you to listen carefully right after, making you focus even more.

Those things didn’t happen all the time – but they would be as unexpected as a shooting star crossing the sky. All of a sudden, catching you by surprise, Vergil’s hands rested on your hips, his lips planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Ah!” But of course. Even if Vergil was careful and didn’t do things as suddenly – or as aggressively – as his twin brother when it came to surprises, you did get startled, tripping on your own feet as he kissed you. “Verge!”

“Y/n! Be careful!” Vergil tried to hold you as best as he could. Your hands entangled, one of his arms trying to embrace your waist and pull you back to him. He lost his balance, though, tripping alongside you and trying to stop whatever was happening – as long as you didn’t get hurt, it would be alright for him.

As unexpected as his kiss was, you both ended up falling on the bed – which, at least, was a fluffy fall. Until, that is, a loud crack resonated through the room. Vergil still held you tight in his arms, your fingers intertwined as you felt the bed giving in under your weight.

When all went silent, you and Vergil both exchanged looks, still trying to understand what happened.

It didn’t take too much to remember your bed was a little wobbly – because of Vergil’s recurrent nightmares, you had a couple accidents with the Yamato, chipping at the bed and having to fix it until you had time to buy a sturdier one. With the weight of the both of you falling on it, the bed couldn’t take it anymore and cracked in pieces.

“I blame the mosquito.” You whispered silently, making Vergil immediately bury his head on your neck.

You could hear a muffled laugh – not loud, but comfortable, as he would always be around you. Resting one of your hands on his wet hair, you smiled as you felt his shoulders finally relax, his jaw losing the tension as Vergil kissed your neck.

“We will look for a new bed tomorrow morning.” He sighed, still wondering if all of that was one of Mundus’ illusions before he woke up once more in Hell, having his soul broken even further.

If it was, Vergil closed his eyes and wished for it to last a little longer this time.

“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch for a while.” You ran your fingers through his hair, making Vergil lean his weight on his arms in order to look into your eyes. There was nothing in there that could point to Mundus’ tricks – your eyes were filled with adoration and a slight tinge of melancholy, a mixture particular to you that always made him secretly breathless and completely vulnerable. “As long as you’re around, anything works for me.”

Vergil always found something quite interesting when you were around. All his life, he believed there were words for everything – and all could be expressed through prose, through a painting of words into a masterpiece. Upon meeting you, though, he realized some things had no words in any languages he knew that could express what he wanted to say – the only thing he could do was to kiss you back with all the admiration that stirred inside his chest.

Indeed, sleeping on the couch was far from perfect. But having your head safe and sound on his chest while he played with your hair, with you listening to his heartbeat as you always enjoyed to do…Vergil thought not even Heaven could be more perfect than that – and he asked whatever could listen to allow him to live such an ordinary, human life for as long as he could.

Because as long as you were around, anything worked for him.

Nero

“Hey, Kyrie…? I was thinking maybe we can move those shelves from the bedroom to the…”

If there was a thing Nero used to do quite often, that thing would be already talking without even making sure the other person was listening. Usually while still walking towards them, screaming in the distance, barely paying attention to said person.

He seriously questioned why he and Kyrie decided to clean and solve all the little issues in their house on the hottest day of the year – but then again, it was a sudden heatwave and no one was expecting it. Nevertheless, his white tank top was already drenched in sweat, his pair of jeans definitely too hot for that day and he was doing something he never did in his life: working barefoot.

Having a piece of furniture he was tinkering with in his hands, he approached the living room so he could tell Kyrie his brilliant idea of moving the shelves to the garage – decluttering the bedroom and having more storage where they actually needed. As he looked up, though, Nero most definitely didn’t expect that sight.

Kyrie was wearing the shortest pair of shorts she could find at home – flimsy, delicate, from her pajamas – and a sports bra. That’s it. Her hair was tied in a bun, while she had a spatula on one of her hands, completely barefoot on top of the kitchen counter island. Her skin glistening with sweat, while she viciously looked for something.

Nero didn’t want to blush. He wasn’t going to blush. He pursed his lips and did his best to control all of his feelings – after all, he could control his devil trigger, controlling blushing because of seeing that goddess of a woman right on their kitchen wearing almost nothing and being absolutely gorgeous shouldn’t be harder, right…? Right…?! It shouldn’t. Nero wasn’t…

He was blushing. Like a bell pepper.

“Oh, Nero! I didn’t listen to what you said, I’m sorry…!” Kyrie was a little startled upon seeing him – and she certainly took the blushing as his response to how hot the day was rather than anything else.

“What… Did you know climbing furniture is dangerous?!” After the initial shock, though, Nero’s protective instincts towards his loved ones had to kick in. Approaching the island in a hurry, he had his hands on his waist, but ready to get Kyrie out of there.

“Oh, I do, don’t treat me like a child.” Even though her answer was annoyed, Kyrie dismissed his comment with a sigh and a slight smile: she would never complain about how protective Nero was towards her. She would always appreciate that. “But I’m trying to solve a problem on my own.”

“Well, the only problem I see here is you on top of the counter, beautiful.” Nero rested his hands on the cold stone, slightly considering laying down on it to get rid of the heat. Maybe standing on it wasn’t that bad, but he would never endorse such dangerous behavior on her side. “C’mon. Lemme help you down.”

“Hey! I’m doing some hunting, I won’t climb down now!” Kyrie now had her hands on her waist, finally looking down at Nero and finding his always attentive but loving aquamarine eyes. She could never get angry at those eyes, he definitely was her soft spot. “I’ve been doing this for the past half-hour. It’s ok, Nero.”

“Wait, what? Huntin’? What’s the matter?!” It was like she flipped a switch in Nero. Suddenly, there was the devil hunter, always aware of his surroundings, ready to sucker-punch any clueless demon that appeared in front of him. All of this got amplified with the fact that Kyrie was around and he would be damned if anyone even thought about touching her in his presence.

She had to giggle. It was almost a natural response even. Nero could have all the pose he wanted – he could be the troublesome punk with a dirty mouth and short-tempered behavior all he wanted – but Kyrie could always see the man he was underneath all that. In his aquamarine eyes, Kyrie has ever seen a sweet man, gentle, worried about his friends, loyal and caring, ready to sacrifice everything and anything for his loved ones. The punk attitude could fool everyone else but her.

And Kyrie had to admit, Nero looked as cute as a badass demon hunter could be when she saw everything that was under his short-tempered answers, ready to get into a fight – the love, the care and the immediate instinct to protect at all costs.

He looked up at her, clueless for a few moments. Kyrie would always look like a little angel in Nero’s eyes, with a giggle resembling little silver bells on a golden morning. Her cheeks slightly blushing, her beautiful hair starting to fall over her face, her rose-pink lips so delicate as her warm brown eyes watched him with care.

“It’s nothing like that, silly…” Her voice was always soft, so different than everything else Nero had always heard. Since the beginning, he was always used to being treated harshly or with indifference, but Kyrie was the first one to offer him comfort and love. He always thought falling for her was inevitable, as they were meant to be from the moment their eyes crossed for the first time. “I’m having mosquito problems.”

“Mosquito problems…?” And suddenly, all that wave of adrenaline washed off his body. Nero could be calmer, it wasn’t anything to be horribly worried at. Leaning over the kitchen counter, he smiled up at his little angel. “All that ‘cause of a lil’ mosquito…?”

“Oh, don’t downplay it like that!” Kyrie pretended to be mad, lightly slapping one of his arms with the spatula. As Nero giggled, she started looking around again. “I’ve been on that for the past half-hour. I’ve been trying to catch it but it’s too fast!”

“We can always try some pesticide.” As soon as Nero suggested, Kyrie glanced at him.

“Nero. Last time we tried pesticide, you almost died from the smell. We had to ask Dante to sleep at the shop, remember?” Of course, he didn’t. Nero had probably erased that memory out of his head, but Kyrie would forever be there to remind him: out of the two, he was the most sensitive with strong chemical smells, specially cleaning products and pesticides, given his demonic heritage. Nero would never want to admit it out loud, but it was true.

“Oh… Yeah.” As always, Nero would do his best to change subjects – thanking the heatwave for the first time for serving as a perfect cover for his blushing. “But ya know, killin’ it with a spatula isn’t the best thing in the world. Actually, killin’ it isn’t like you at all.”

“Well, I get rashes every time they bite me. I must be allergic to something.” Kyrie sighed, finally approaching Nero on the counter. He stepped back for a bit and she put the spatula away, sitting in front of him, legs hanging from the counter. “And you were sort of allergic too when we were kids.”

“Ah, yeah, I remember… Got some pretty nasty itches all over my arms.” Nero let out a quick laugh, unconsciously resting his hands on Kyrie’s thighs. She was warmer than usual – not as much as him though – and her skin was soft, slightly damp. As a reflex, he lightly caressed her tights with his thumbs while talking – and Kyrie thanked the heatwave for hiding the real reason she was blushing at that moment. “You’re right, I’ll give ya that. Mosquitoes aren’t allowed in this house.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was a small whisper, Kyrie still trying to control her heartbeat. She wasn’t half-demon like Nero though, and her human heart would always follow her own feelings instead of whatever her mind was trying to control. “Do you think you can help me with it?”

“I can always help you with anything, princess.” His aquamarine eyes sparkled with care as Nero leaned forward to place a very not rushed at all kiss on her angel lips. Kyrie cradled his face with both of her hands, smiling into his lips – Nero always tasted honey-sweet to her, no matter the situation. “Alright, angel, time to deal with your mosquito. Where’s the lil’ bastard?”

“It was flying around the ceiling. I managed to slap it a couple of times but, as you said, spatulas aren’t that efficient.” She let go of him, watching lovingly as Nero got a couple of shoes he had left in the kitchen while cleaning the bedroom floor. “What are you going to do with so many shoes…?”

“Well, I got a trick up my sleeve.” With a wink, Nero’s ice blue trigger claws appeared behind his back like a set of wings, catching one shoe in each of its hands. Kyrie couldn’t stop laughing. “Ya know, demons have their domestic uses, we can be pretty handy at home.”

“That was awful, Nico would love it!” Kyrie couldn’t stop laughing and giggling as Nero climbed on the kitchen counter, armed with two pairs of shoes.

He wasn’t lying: his trigger could be very helpful when doing chores. That was how he always did whatever he needed to do around the house in half of the time: Nero literally had control over another set of hands to help.

As Nero used all his enhanced senses to find the mosquito and start hunting it with four relentless shoes, Kyrie watched him with what one would think it was too much admiration in her eyes for such a trivial thing. Even though it was mundane, it wasn’t trivial to her: nothing was trivial when it came to spending time with someone she loved, especially Nero.

When others would see a half-demon creature, Kyrie would see the human she loved so much. And not only that – they started dating when they were teens, yes, they grew up together and soon that young love matured over time – Kyrie didn’t see her boyfriend, but a man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with and who would be such a great husband and father.

Nero would deny if she ever told him that, of course. But Kyrie could see how he played with the children, how he scolded them in such a fatherly way when needed, how he always seemed to have so much patience even if he hid it under a short-tempered demeanor. Nero would make the best dad jokes, he would build the best pillow forts, he would stay awake into the night to care for his children when they would get sick… Kyrie could make a list of things Nero would certainly do as a father – and would excel at it.

“C’mon… Where did it… A-ha! Found it! No escape now!”

She was brought up from her thoughts as soon as Nero exclaimed those words, all four pieces of shoes ready to attack. The mosquito had nowhere to go: he threw one shoe, calculated the route the mosquito would fly over, and threw the other three in a row – faster than she could even think about it. The mosquito was caught in the second shoe, but, if that hadn’t happened, it would had found certain death in the other shoes.

“Job done, princess! Your nights will be peaceful and mosquito-less again!” Nero’s trigger hands disappeared as he bowed to Kyrie – who just laughed and applauded as he did so.

“Thank you so much, brave knight!” She had to joke around. Nero had this thing of calling her princess ever since they were teens – and he never knew how much her heart jumped inside of her chest every time he did that. To counter it and be able to hide how much she loved him in Fortuna, Kyrie would always call him something like that back as a joke, so the elders would think they were just playing. It sort of became their thing after a while – and she quite enjoyed it. “I think it’s my turn to repay you.”

“Eh, no need…” With a sigh, Nero sat by Kyrie’s side on the counter, legs dangling from it as well. He was a lot taller than her, but not even his feet couldn’t reach the floor from where they were sitting. “I’ll do it a thousand times if I have to.”

Looking at her, Nero allowed a caring smile to fill not only his lips but his eyes as well. While so many people saw only fire and rage, Kyrie had the privilege of seeing love and vulnerability inside that aquamarine sea.

Placing one of her hands on his cheek, Kyrie pulled Nero for a kiss – soft, long and calm. Nero was taken aback for a few seconds before melting into it, placing his hands on her hips and finding her soft skin. It seemed like a bolt of lightning went up their spines as Nero caressed her sides and ran his hand on her silky, slightly damp back.

“Oh, what were you saying about the bedroom before…?” Her question was a whisper as Kyrie parted the kiss – both of them blushing and vaguely breathless.

“Nothin’ that matters. The shelves can wait.” Nero dismissed it quickly, pulling her back to a kiss – both of them laughing between each other’s lips.

The house was a mess as they were cleaning everything: the kitchen and the bedroom seemed like they were torn apart, with clothes and shoes lying everywhere, books finding temporary solace somewhere else, and everything looking like it was turned upside down.

Spending time with each other, though, was a bigger priority. They would order some pizza and sleep on the couch under a light bedsheet so they wouldn’t get caught by surprise in case Nico decided to visit all of a sudden in the morning – but they wouldn’t pass the opportunity of loving each other.

As the night settled, they rested on the couch, Nero cradling Kyrie safely in his arms, as they talked the night away, always blushing from being so intimate with each other – that would never change, no matter how many years had gone by.

While watching Kyrie giggling from one of his stupid jokes, looking like an angel resting her head on his chest, Nero blushed even more while laughing alongside her and playing with her hair. He would always be a fool for her.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get a glass of cold water for you?” Kyrie whispered into the night, the humming of the fan they found in the back of the garage making the weather a little bit more bearable. “You look like a tomato, dear.”

“Oh, it’s ok. It’s chillier now, my temperature will go down soon.” Nero smiled back at her, wondering how Kyrie could be so radiant. No supernatural creature could top that. “No need to worry, angel. Thank you.”

Obviously, he would never say he was blushing because of her - having only one thing in his mind… Thank whatever forces that be for that heatwave.

[chameleocoonj]

🕸️🎃👻SPOOKY BUGS👻🎃🕸️

[cowboy-robooty]

not going to name names bc thats messed up but omfg i was tryna find records of old heta fandom shit to show inu right and i found a hetalia iceberg and I SAW MY 2019 OPP ON THERE. IT WAS SO FUCKING FUNNY LIKE MY EYES BULGED OUT OF MY SKULL BECAUSE IM NOT EVEN JOKING I HATED THIS BITCH SO MUCH WHEN I WAS 14 AND NGL I STILL HATE HER. I DIDNT SAY NOTHING AND KEPT CURTIOUS AND NORMAL OBVIOUSLY BUT ON THE INSIDE I WANTED HER ASS DEAD EVERYDAY AND WELL... you all know im never in the loop with things and had no fucking clue that she was just the antichrist for an entire group of people lol. SHE WAS MY ANTICHRIST THO. I HATED HER AND SHE HATED ME OKAY AND IM LIKE RODF SEEING HOW SHES ON THE FUCKING HETALIA ICEBERG I WAS LIKE OMG.... I THOUGHT ONLY I FUCKING DESPISED HER

[rurinnfane]

Happy Friday the 13th from Perdita la brujita, happiest rescue cat in the whole wide world (who is also rapidly approaching her first adoption anniversary!)

[westvocap-ocbracket]

ROUND THREE! SIDE B-2

Momotan Vs. Camellia

[mercymaker]

well, had a historically terrible night, barely slept. a mosquito absolutely ate my ass and kept waking me up. tummy pain made it hard to fall back asleep. i opened the window to cool off the room so i could wrap myself in a blanket completely and protect myself from the mosquito, but i guess it was too cold and made my cold/coughing worse

[rockattitudegr]

Με την πρώτη επίσημη ημέρα του καλοκαιριού οι Vegan Mosquitoes κάνουν την επανεμφάνισή τους με το Devil (A Matter of Time), που είναι και το 3ο από τα 4 singles του 2ου EP τους.

[chloe-lovegood]

The existance of the mosquitoes is the only proof that I will ever need for the fact that either the God doesn't exist at all or that the Satan is clearly winning the battle

[littlemoondarling]

That moment you overthink yourself to the point of tears at 3 am

[incorrectbatfam]

Jason, auditioning for the weather channel: Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to have a fucking funeral for the outdoors. It had a good run, with all its creeks and clouds and shit. Pretty great. Now it's ten-thirty at night but still ninety-two asshole-sweating degrees and humid as fuck. Everything is hot and slimy, like being a burrower that got trapped inside a bottle of shampoo and then accidentally microwaved. You can see on my doppler radar that nothing is moving around out there because everything is probably dead. The only alive thing is the mosquito currently trying to drill a hole in my leg. No surprise that all the shitbag mosquitoes are fine, since the thermostat of hell is always at the devil's preferred temperature. This forecast has gotten away from me a little, but in conclusion, fuck the sun.

[d34dlysinner]

So I fully unlocked the bathtub Satan story parts and wanted to write a post summarising the story.

MINORS DNI

Spoilers under the cut

(Since there's a mistake with the male/female MC usage in the card my story will probably lean more to Male body MC instead of female.)

Story part 1:

War is raging in Gehenna as usual and Satan runs up front to confront angels wrecking the place. You catch up later with Sitri and Ppyong. All demons fight against the angels while you/MC see a child demon watching in awe from afar. Worried you made your way towards the child. You decide to protect the child when an angel flies above your head. The angel tried reaching towards you and the child. Satan defended you both and even took a powerful blow (the angel blew up) for both you and the child.

(Rare moment with his eyes closed)

After the fight, you, Satan, and the child make your way towards the parent of the demon child. You were worried about Satan as he took a powerful attack to protect you and the child. He responds with: "It was like a mosquito bite."

Sitri and Ppyong joined you and Satan later and also were worried about their king. That's when Sitri noticed that Satan wasn't drenched in blood from the angel. Ppyong and MC noticed that Satan was too clean and not even hurt from the explosion. This is where Sitri confirms both Ppyong and your questions. Satan was hit by cursed angel blood.

Cursed angel blood gets absorbed by devils and can weaken devils. Demons can't touch the blood since they'll also be affected so MC needs to wash it off/help him.

You tried rushing to the palace to do something about the situation immediately, but Satan made no effort into rushing towards the palace. There, demons in black uniforms as Satan greeted Satan, Ppyong, and Sitri.

Sitri and Ppyong made their way toward the bathroom to prepare the bath. Meanwhile, Satan was taking off his clothes in the long hallway towards the bathroom. Leraye and Paimon greeted Satan and started asking about the cursed blood. Leraye even tried to approach Satan, but Paimon stopped him before Leraye could attract the curse.

Satan rid himself of all clothes except his underwear so that Paimon and Leraye can burn the clothes. Paimon and Leraye then told you to wash Satan off and that they want to bathe with you later.

Soon after you and Satan left the two other demons, he started to feel weak and he started to pant and almost collapse on the spot.

He doesn't want others to worry for him so he makes himself look strong in front of them. You both make your way to the bathroom to meet Sitri there. Sitri handed Satan a shirt and pants to wear and left you and Satan in the bathroom. Satan approached you and started licking and kissing you.

Story part 2:

A very heated kiss continued in part two. He made sure you couldn't pull away as blood and saliva were exchanged between the two of you. He pulled away satisfied. He told you to join him and to wash him. You immediately touch his skin which has multiple scars. He then asked you whether you wanted to know about his scars. You looked at him confused. Thinking to yourself how he could know. He then says that you both are sharing senses. So he knows what you're thinking.

You started to pinch and bite him since he didn't seem to mind you lusting over him.

He then asked what your next move was.

Story part 3:

It starts with you strangling Satan. You took a deep breath and gripped hard. Your hands strangled Satan harsher and you felt the same on your neck.

He chuckled when you stopped choking him. You both coughed and panted for air. With a smile on his face, he moved his hand from your shoulder towards your pants. Undoing your pants and moving his hands into your pants. He grabbed your bottom and soon after teased your hole. You use his fingers to stimulate yourself. It pleased Satan to see you move on his fingers. While you moved on his hand you reached towards his nipples. Biting and licking the soft skin. You moved your hands and scratched the skin on his butt. Yet again satisfying him. He turned around and revealed his bare bottom. You slapped his bottom hard and felt the same impact on your own ass.

Soon after you saw that he was still fully dressed while you were already half naked. You took his pants off and spanked him again multiple times. The feeling of the slap is also present on your ass. Satan was very satisfied and asked you teasingly whether you were done.

You, of course, weren't finished with him. You felt aroused, but Satan also was feeling aroused as his penis was growing in size.

Story part 4:

You wrapped your thighs over his penis and rocked back and forth. You both felt ecstasy. He grabbed your waist and moved into your thighs.

He started talking about how he allowed someone to make the bath a century ago. Then goes on about how the parents of "The Blacksmith" gave birth inside the castle. Satan held the baby for a second when it was delivered. The kid became a skillful artisan.

He started another story where a lady in tattered clothes asked Satan to bless her baby. He named the kid "Richrich" and then sent the mother and the child back with food. The kid is now a good healthy devil who walks around in Gehenna uniform in his army.

He continued moving his penis between your thighs the entire time and made sure to never enter you.

He pointed at your navel and asked. "Are you interested in making children in here?"

Sweet king moment where he said that all his people are his treasures. He wants to protect the entirety of Gehenna. The children and their futures. Satan never stopped moving.

You felt immense pleasure as you told him that you were going to cum soon. He then teased you asking what you would do if he said the same thing. You suddenly knew what he would say. "Hold it.", you thought as you knew that he wouldn't allow you to cum.

You felt annoyed at being unable to cum and wanted to blame someone. So you bit and scratched Satan. You licked his sweat and bit him wherever you wanted on his skin. You felt the pain, but the excitement was stronger. He forcibly moved your head away from his shoulders and kissed you. You bit his lips during the kiss and felt his blood flow into your mouth.

Story part 5:

You stopped thigh fucking him and moved so your lips could attach to his penis. You sucked him off until you felt the liquid of his horn pour onto your head. You looked up and saw his horns leaking just like his penis. You reached up and touched his horn. You both flinched. That's when you felt something leak inside of you. You continued holding his horns. The stimulation you gave to his horns made it feel as if you were being fucked. He held you tight as you started to lick his horns. You both grunted and moaned as you came at the same time. After coming down from the high of an orgasm, you scooped up the liquid that sprayed on your face and licked your fingers. Making sure to show Satan.

You both rested in the empty bathtub. The water was all on the floor. The candles had all gone out and the rose petals were scattered all over the place. You filled the tub again with hot water and sat in it with Satan.

He said that the curse was all washed off with a smile on his face. He praised you for helping him.

You thought of what he said during the entire scene. He loves his people. Satan talked again and said that it wasn't any big kind of love, but he didn't want them to be homeless or lose families. Since he apparently knows what it feels like.

The somewhat sad tone quickly shifted and Satan was about to start a heated session again. You tried to go against it because you were tired and embarrassed

His response was

You decided that you'd like to spend time with him anyway, but 3 minutes in, both Paimon and Leraye entered the bathroom.

They dived into the bath to join your bath time.

[readingcoco]

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 5487

Ao3 Link

Summary: Arthur revisits Rhodes Parlour House, hoping to get information about the Braithwaite gold from working girl Ettie. He leaves with more questions than answers and a gift he wasn't expecting.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honour Arthur Morgan, angst, emotional smut.

Chapter Two - The Whore

[Chapter 1]

Arthur.

The air in Lemoyne is cloying. Sticky and thick like Molasses. He hates it here, hates waking up wet with sweat, bitten to an inch of his life by the mosquitos that swarm the lake behind his tent.  He’s never been this far south and would gladly leave soon as convenient, except for Dutch’s insistence that gold lies somewhere between the warring Gray and Braithwaite families. He’s less convinced but far from him to try to question Dutch once his mind is set on something. 

A high-pitched buzz by his left ear is met with the thwack of his open palm. Gotcha.

Something else is gnawing away at him, too, besides the mosquitos. A stirring in him, he thought, all but laid to rest after Mary, after— the kind that makes itself known only when he’s here, lying alone in his tent, staring up at the ceiling. 

Want. 

Fuck. He wants her so bad. Ettie, that working girl, up in Rhodes. With her daring eyes and smart mouth — her hands on him, days ago, in the parlour house. Bold as anything. God, if the very thought of her didn’t make a beeline straight down to his cock. He don't like it, don’t like it at all — what she does to him, how she makes him feel. Unarmed. Weak even. But also lighter.

He is appalled to admit he’s considered taking himself in hand more than once now to the thought of her breasts, her smile, the way she looked at him, full of doe-eyed devilment. He’s like some hapless kid. Should be ashamed. 

He’s not been with a whore since his 20s. There was that one Dutch paid for when he turned 17, a string of them after Mary ended things the first time around. Abigail? Once. The last time he lay with a woman was when he and Mary briefly came back together before she married. What was that 94… 95? Would he even remember what to do? Would he be able to last? As a whore she ought not to care, especially if he’s paying for the privilege. But he wants to please her. Wants to fill her smart mouth with sounds of pleasure. Watch those daring, teasing eyes roll back in her head as she comes undone for him. 

He’s stroking himself now. Her imagined sighs. His name on her lips—

Arthurrr—

“—ARTHUR!”

Dutch shouts him from outside his tent. Inescapable like the soupy Lemoyne air. Goddamnit, he hates it here. 

*

“Best I can stoop to is twenty.”

Arthur nods, weighing the expensive-looking silver bracelet loosely in his palm before handing it over. Hosea was better at knowing the worth of fine things, but the fence was on his way back to camp, and it didn’t make sense to make two trips. Still, twenty dollars wasn’t bad for an afternoon playing errand boy to two star-crossed lovers. Not quite the gold Dutch was hoping for, but something at least.

“Deputy.” The man flashes him a knowing wink, touching the brim of his hat. He winces before stiffly nodding back—damn badge. 

He won’t feel too bad about it; the Braithwaite girl, Penelope, had seemed more than content with just the letter, and neither family looked short on finary, as ill-gotten as it was. No, no harm done. 

The sun is at its hottest, leaving him half-blind as it beams punishingly up from the road ahead. Sweat pours from his brow, and he can barely see where he’s going when he finds himself steering Branwen right up the hill towards Rhodes rather than carrying on straight in the direction of camp. 

Only the stench of the butcher’s meat left out too long in the midday heat is enough to break him from his trance and acknowledge where he is. As though Branwen had been steering herself, with him merely passenger. 

Too late to turn around now, he concedes. Might as well carry on heading where he’s heading. 

He takes a long glug from his waterskin before dismounting. Hitching Branwen to the shadiest post of the parlour and making sure she has her fill from the water trough provided—a few extra sugar cubes for good measure. 

“Won’t be long, girl.” 

The heat was just as hard on the horses. 

He assures himself he’s here for reconnaissance— nothing more. If anyone’s likely to have information on the Grays and Braithwaites, it’s her. Probably had enough of them to pick something up the gang could find useful, what with her knack for seeing the stuff folk didn’t want seen. 

The twenty dollars burns a hole in his pocket. 

Ettie had seemed willing the last time, hadn’t she? Not put off or disgusted by him that he could make out. Maybe the badge had its uses, after all. 

Hell, maybe if he slept with her, got it out of his system, he could get on with the job at hand and stop all this silly early morning pining.

*

The parlour house is sleepy as he enters, too late for the lunchtime trade, too early for the field workers to have downed tools and made their way into town. His eyes skirt sheepishly across the bar. 

He’d found himself coming here quite a bit since the gang moved south, not just to avoid Pearson’s cooking but because it was one of the few places that offered solace from the outside sun, the thick leafy green curtains keeping out the worst of the rays. I was nicer than most places he tended to frequent, the white-clothed tables suggesting a level of expected cleanliness from its clientele. And though he’d made sure to kick the mud from his boots before entering, he now chose to stand on the hardwood rather than risk marking the floral rugs that lined the rest of the room.

He can’t see her. Not even sure she's started working yet. And though a couple of girls at the bar make him double-take, none of them are Ettie. 

He’s just about ready to skulk out, feeling old and feckless, when he hears her. Laughter carrying brightly from behind him, awakening the entire place from its slumber. He’d forgotten how alive she was. The rough sketch he’d drawn of her the night he’d got back to camp had barely captured her likeness, let alone her charm. 

She is sat in one of the wooden booths, perched on the lap of a stout-looking man, happy and light, head thrown back, though he’s certain the man at her seat did little to merit such pleasant sounds. 

He stalls for a moment, watching her work and is reminded of Hosea’s ability to tell a person exactly what they want to hear in order to rob them blind — except he isn’t sure who would be robbing who in the current circumstance. 

The stout man’s hand paws lecherously at Ettie’s waist, bouncing her on his knee as he ogles up at her. Surely, no amount could be worth the touch of a man like that. Is that how he had looked, too? Leering and pathetic? Sucked in by talk of sketching and paints. She had read him like a book, and he’d allowed it — a fool to think her interest was in anything other than the dollars in his pocket. 

Well, if money is all it will take to get her pretty face out of his waking thoughts, so be it.

“Miss White?” 

Ettie shifts to face him mid-conversation and grins impishly as though expecting his arrival.

“Hello, stranger.” 

But as he opens his mouth to respond, the words of solicitation stick in his throat, and he realises how unpracticed he is at this whole buisness. The man beneath her glares back, warning him off what’s his. Arthur swallows dryly, raising an arm to rest awkwardly on the booth’s divider, the other hooking into the buckle of his belt. 

“I believe— Last time I was here you—”

Ettie raises an eyebrow, choosing to watch him flounder rather than step to his salvation. 

So she’s toying with him. He sees how it is. Hadn’t acted quick enough the first time around and had her plucked from his side by the drunkard Leigh Gray. Now if he wants her, she’s expecting him to do the same to the dolt under her. He grits his jaw. The glint of his badge catches his eye, and he tries a different tack.

“I’ve heard word there’ve been dangerous men spotted in the area.”

Ettie scans the empty bar and looks back at him plainly.

“Everything seems fine from where I’m sittin’, Deputy.” She puts a playful hand on the stout man’s knee. “Wouldn’t you say so Ernest?” The man nods, wrapping his arm ever tighter around Ettie’s waist. 

“Would you just—I’d like it if—” He can feel his cheeks starting to burn as he avoids meeting her eye and instead looks over his shoulder towards the central staircase. He speaks low, “Last time I was in, you asked to show me your work— but we was interrupted.”

A twinkle of recognition from Ettie. “Oh? You still interested?”

“Yes.” He sniffs. It’s out there now. Can’t take it back. 

She silently weighs up some mental calculation before placing a palm on Ernest’s chest. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. Would you mind terribly if you bought me a drink some other time? The Deputy and I have a prior arrangement.” 

He almost sympathises as he watches the man’s face shift from confusion to disappointment, but before it has a chance to twist into anger, Ettie kisses Ernest squarely on the mouth. “Wait right here. I’ve got someone who’ll know how to make it up to you.” She leaves with a wink and no room for protest, springing up and scurrying across to the bar. 

Arthur regards Ernest with an awkward salute, unsure what to say given the circumstances. At least when he robbed men at gunpoint, there was no pretence of polite conversation. 

It’s Ernest who is first to break their silence, “She’s a wily one, Deputy. Not as perky as some of the younger girls, but makes up for it with experience.” He slaps Arthur’s arm in a fashion far too familiar. It makes his skin crawl. “Clean, too.” 

“They’ll be cleanin' you off this floor if you speak about the Lady like that again. We understood?” He’d done his best not to raise his voice, Dutch’s instructions of keeping a low profile never far from his mind, but the man is still white as a sheet as Ettie arrives back at the booth. With her is a lofty-looking girl with ashy blonde hair, who regards Arthur with an amused up and down as she passes. She doesn’t bother to say hello, instead making a beeline straight to Ernest’s side. 

“A birdy told me you were in need of company since yours is being so rudely snatched away,” she says pointedly. 

Although Ettie rolls her eyes, it’s obvious she’s in on the bit. 

“Ernest, Ida’s going to take good care of you while I take the Deputy upstairs. Don’t have too much fun without me now.”

*

The walk up to Ettie’s room is long enough for the dread to start to kick in. He can feel his heart pumping in his throat and remembers why he stopped all this nonsense years ago, but then the warmth of her touch meets the small of his back, and she smiles at him gently from under her lashes.

 “I’ve been wantin' to get you away from prying eyes,” she says quietly, for his ears alone. “Here’s my room, first on the left.” 

As the door closes behind them, he can finally allow his shoulders to relax as he is greeted by the smell of lavender and something sweet he can’t quite place—chamomile, maybe? Her room is small, with sunny yellow walls and surfaces laden with bric-à-brac, the type which collects only once a space has been lived in for some time. Things that would be prone to getting lost or damaged travelling from pillar to post as he did, things he wanted to pick over and admire. 

A painting hung to his right catches his eye: a handsome-looking dark bay drinking from what looks like Flat Iron Lake. He moves towards it to inspect it up close.

“You wanna leave your gun by the door, Deputy?” Ettie says softly.

He looks down. Of course. And undoes his gun belt, wrapping it around itself before setting it on the side, along with his hat. He stands before her, disarmed, not quite sure what to make of the curious way she watches him or where to rest his twitching fingers without the cool metal of his buckle to anchor to. He folds his arms.

“That’s Burdock, my baby. I take him out ridin’ whenever I can.” Ettie says, gesturing to the painting that caught his attention. 

“You painted this?” 

She grins, sticking up her nose with pride. “I did!” Her lack of reticence surprising. 

“S’good.” 

He’d never been much of a smooth talker when it came to women. Even when first courting Mary it had taken months to build up to asking her for a kiss. But this wasn’t courting, and he’d do best to remember that. 

“As flattered as I am, I know you didn’t come up here just to look at my art.”

“Can a man not appreciate a paintin’?”

“They can,” she says, slinking up to him and running a trail of fire across his chest. Pressing herself flush against him. Her hair smells like rose water — not mud, or sweat, or blood. And it disturbs him to think that the last time he felt the heat from another’s body so close, his hands were wrapped around their neck. The tip of her nose aligns with his collarbone, and he could rest his chin on her crown if he felt bold. “But it would be an awful expensive trip just to look at a picture.” 

She steps back slowly to look at him, her absence leaving him cold. For a moment he fears she’s sensed the danger he’s sure he radiates — realising a beat too late, the expected next step of their dance. 

“How much do I owe you?” he says, flusteredly reaching into his satchel. 

“Five dollars. Anything ‘French’ is an additional two — Though considering I’m due payment from our little sweepstakes, I’d be happy to waive the fee for that on this occasion.” 

He’d almost forgotten about the bet placed on his head and wondered how often the women discussed what went on behind closed doors, how he would fair in comparison. He cringes at the thought and tries to push it to the back of his mind. 

“I ain’t expectin’ special treatment, don’t worry.”

He hands over five dollars, and with the money on the dresser, Ettie retakes her position. The plainness of the transaction and the affection it now entitled him to feeling implausible. 

“Relax a little,” her voice comes out like a breath, encouraging him to breathe deeply in time with her. “It’s okay. We’re gonna have fun.” She guides him over to the bed before stepping back to remove her shirtwaist and skirt, each button revealing new skin he now had permission to touch. 

As he stands there watching, something about the ungraceful practicality of her undressing fascinates him, how in contrast it felt to the choreographed movements of the rest of her performance. He wonders if this is her more natural state, all furrowed brows and uncoordinated limbs, and if so, what it took for her to keep up appearances. 

When down to her corset and underthings, Ettie faces the mirror to unpin the hair fixed neatly atop her head. He is silent as it falls like water, spilling over the ridge of her shoulders and pooling loosely at the base of her spine. 

“Your turn now.” She says, and he hardly has time to react before her nimble fingers are working open the buttons of his shirt. 

From this angle, he can see how the sun has caught the high points of her face, leaving behind a sprinkle of freckles lightly masked by powder. The slope of her neck is decorated by loose curls and a small silver locket that bobs up and down above her— He dares not gaze lower. Only as she begins to work at his fly does his sluggish brain arrive at the moment in hand.

“You ain’t taking this off?” His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, and for the first time, Ettie looks a little startled, stepping back to look at him hesitantly. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“I wasn’t planning on. My draws are split, and this unties. Look—” She pulls the ribbon at her shoulder. And he hates that it’s Ernest’s words that colour his view as the loosened cotton strap of her chemise falls away to expose a pretty breast, pushed up by the boning of her corset. Was the man blind? “It’s a little cumbersome to get on and off.” He aches to see her fully, to touch the skin still hidden from view, but he won’t push. 

Her hand dips back into his open fly, sliding between a gap in his union suit. He lets out a wince to feel the pads of her fingers making contact with the base of his dick. “That feel good?” she goads. His whole body gone rigid. Barely able to summon words. Nodding sharply in response, as she begins to ease him out. 

The pace in which she palms him feels foreign compared to his hand's efficient strokes, but she is responsive to each breath, learning him with every shudder and tense of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, he allows himself to get lost in the sensation of her experienced hands. Rare he is permitted such selfish pleasure. Rare anyone did anything for him without expectation of its return tenfold. And yet— The lopsidedness of the arrangement suddenly feels too much to bear. He needs to touch her, needs to make her feel as good as she’s making him. 

As her speed quickens, he moves a cautious hand to her breast, cradling her delicately before lightly skimming his thumb across her nipple. Testing. Her rhythm falters slightly, and he is rewarded with a small whimper that escapes half-bitten through her lips. That’s it. He circles the pebbled skin, harder this time, and delights to feel her swell under his touch. Confidence growing, he dips his head lower to taste her. She moans again, but this time unrestrained, head lolling back as he sucks. 

“Arthurrr—”

Her strokes hasten, and he needs to hear her keen for him again. Needs to touch her. He reaches down between them, between her legs, trying to find the source of her heat amongst rumpled cotton, but then she is pulling away. Stepping back. Straightening up. 

“Hey, this is about you. Don’t worry about me, okay.” She says.

“But—” 

“Shhhh, trust me,” Ettie whispers calmly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He worries that he has done something wrong, hurt her in some way he didn’t intend, too forceful, too coarse. But like she can read his mind—

“Stay put, I ain’t goin' nowhere.”

She’s good at that, he thinks, toeing the line between gentle and firm. Never going as far to bruise a man’s ego but not coming across as a pushover either. Had she always been that way, or had she learnt how to soothe a man, just as he’d learnt how to intimidate them? Through necessity. What was her natural temperament? What was his? 

Ettie walks over to the dresser and grabs a small glass jar, scooping out a little of the contents before returning to the bed. 

“You wanna get a little more comfortable?” She says, eyeing his half-open union suit and the jeans around his ankles with amusement. What a sight he must look. But if she was going to remain in her underthings, shouldn’t he? It didn’t seem proper to be exposed when she was not. He kicks off his jeans but leaves his Union suit open, but on. 

“What’s that?” He nods to the creamy concoction cupped in her hand.

“Just a little somethin’ for my comfort.” That playful look again. “You are quite… sizable. I wanna make sure I’m ready for you.”

His cheeks darken, her lack of arousal confirming his worst fears.

“Maybe if you let me touch you, you might enjoy it more.”

Her sigh is affectionate. “Who said I wasn’t enjoying myself? Anyone ever told you you worry too much?”

They face each other at the precipice of the bed. His toes curling whilst she slicks up his length with the salve in what feels like one continuous gliding motion, till he is rock hard and panting before her. She shifts herself to bend over the bed, guiding him behind her with a hand on his hip. She arches her back to rest with her forearms on the mattress. 

“You ready to show me what you can do, Deputy?”

“Arthur. Please.” He manages to huff out, unable to look away from the way she is presented so brazenly for him.

Ettie gives him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Arthur, I want you to show me what you’ve been dreamin’ on since we first met.” And he wants to show her, too. 

Swallowing thickly, he carves a hand between the slit of her draws, spreading them open to finally expose the supple flesh of her backside. The sight alone has his dick twitching in anticipation, helpless to prevent the full handful of her ass he takes in his grasp. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He croaks.

“Might have heard it mentioned.” 

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, steadying his breath, before aligning himself with her entrance. He is mindful not to push into her too quickly, and though the salve helps some, he hears her breath hitch in her chest as she takes him, inch by inch.

“Too much?” He asks, trying to mask his trepidation, but he is answered by an enthusiastic grind of her hips, which sheaths him fully inside. He stops breathing for a moment, caught by the clutch of her cunt. Senses all but lost to the sensation of her heat. His lids grow heavy, but the sight of his cock buried to the hilt has him straining to keep them open. Hypnotised by the way she encases him. 

He gently rocks himself backwards and then forward, shallow at first and then deeper, slowly increasing his pace with each slap of their hips.

“Ettie-”

“That feel good, Arthur?” So good. So good. And he wishes he could look into those teasing eyes as she spears herself back onto him. At first, matching his tempo and then provoking him to speed up, take her faster, harder. 

He won’t last much longer at this rate. And tries to bat away the sinking feeling that that might be something she wants. For this to be over quickly. She’s making all the right noises, but then again, he walked into this room with a badge on his chest, so honesty was hardly something he felt entitled to. 

He wants her closer, craving the reassurance only her face could bring. He arches down over her, carefully hooking an arm around her chest, drawing her up into him, until she kneels upright on the bed with him holding her weight from behind, bodies remaining locked. 

“This ok?” He huffs.

“Mhmmm” She nods back hazily.

From this position, he can see her better, the rise and fall of her chest, the growing flush that has spread from her cheeks down her neck, the way her eyes shutter when he reaches for her breast, his other seeking out her heat from below. She hums a little then, a sound so pure it answers all suspicions about the authenticity of those proceeding it. God how he wants to watch her come around him, if only he can last long enough to get her there. 

His fingers slip between her folds, spreading her open as he continues to fuck up into her, the slick of her cunt undeniably her own making now. Ettie’s back arches wildly as he begins to rub a tight ring around her clit, and she lets out a noise halfway between a shriek and a moan like she is surprised by the pleasure. But when he tries to continue, she is grasping his wrist, pulling it away from her core and bringing it up to her mouth to suck hard on his fingers. The debauched way she looks at him then almost sends him over the edge. 

“Come for me, Arthur.”

God, his name sounds like honey on her lips. 

“Just like that—”

 Surely she’s not inferring what he thinks she is? But he is near losing himself in the thought alone.

“So close—” She coos, “Just let go, fill me—” 

Fuck. Fuck—

He drags his erupting cock out of her just in time as he spills violently onto her ass and then the floor, staggering backwards, trying to catch his breath.

“Jesus! Jesus. I nearly— I’m sorry.” He babbles, feeling boorish and out of control. 

“Hey there. I know. I said you could.” She says, turning around to run her fingers through his ruffled hair. He looks back at her, confused, still out of breath. 

“Ain’t you worried about—” he stops, trying to find the correct phrasing but becoming aware of the fond, almost patronising look on Ettie’s face. 

“I ain’t worried, no.” She smiles gently, “Wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t take precautions.” 

He nods sheepishly, though still not entirely at ease, before sitting back down at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply, struggling to enjoy the last twitches of his high. 

When his breath returns to normal, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed, trying not to cringe at the mess he’s made of her and her floor.  

“Don’t feel like you have to rush on account of me,” Ettie says, making her way to a small porcelain jug and basin in the corner of the room. She dampens a washcloth and wipes away all trace of his spend still marking her skin. 

“Want me to clean you up?” She approaches him cautiously.

“I’m alright.” He says. 

She raises a silent eyebrow. 

“I mean, I can manage for myself.” 

She nods and hands him over the rag. He’s not sure how to feel as he tidies himself up, but he's aware of her eyes on him, watching, trying to figure him out. Knowing he’s been read before she even opens her mouth. 

“When did you last lay with a woman, Deputy?” 

He pauses. That bluntness that throws his head through a loop. Dangerous. And he doesn’t know how to answer—what she’s wanting to hear— that it was likely five years since he’d been touched like that? That he’d touched someone else? Was she looking for an explanation for his rustiness or an apology? 

“Was it obvious?” he asks, unable to fully meet her gaze. 

“Well, you ain’t got a ring and—” She hesitates momentarily. “I shouldn’t say it,” The apples of her cheeks start to ripen uncontrollably until she breaks into laughter. “You fuck like you’ve somethin’ to prove.” 

He might be inclined to take such a comment to heart if it wasn’t for the pleasure he took in seeing her so genuinely amused, and before he knows it, he’s chuckling too.

“I just didn’t want it to be awful for you.” 

Ettie nudges him with her heel. “You paid me to make you feel good. So as long as you had fun, I did too.” 

She lights a cigarette and offers him one from her case: silver, engraved with the initials A.B. in an ornate filigree. He accepts and allows her to light the smoke from the tip of her own. He still doesn’t quite know how to make conversation but is relieved to have something to occupy his hands. 

“Still wanna see my paints?” She asks after a few moments quiet.

“That’s why I’m up here, ain’t it?” He says wryly. She scoffs before darting across the room, opening draws, rooting through cupboards, pulling things out left and right—a tornado, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. 

When she returns, her arms are laden with supplies, and she settles down next to him cross-legged on the bed, spreading out her wares between them. She opens a battered-looking sketchbook and smooths out the page.

“See,” she says, stroking the paper and encouraging him to do the same. “Just like the paper in your journal—Oh, wait a second.” 

She stands abruptly before dashing off again, this time to the water jug. Her back turned, Arthur flicks through the pages and is rapt by a flurry of faces looking back at him. A few he recognises as girls from the parlour, but there are others too: an elderly woman in a bright feathered hat, a rakish-looking man in spectacles, a little girl with pigtails holding a ragdoll, each of them living and breathing on the page like she had rendered their very souls. 

“You snoopin’?” Ettie tuts in mock disapproval, though she doesn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. “And after all the grief you gave me for looking at your art.”

Art. 

Arthur had never thought about his sketches in that way before. Sure, he sometimes felt pride if he managed to capture something or someone’s likeness in a way that felt true, but he’d never had any training to consider what he did art. Not like the pretty pictures spread out in front of him now. These felt so full of life he swore he wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them moving.

“These are good,” he says as she settles beside him, her thigh resting lightly against his. 

She rolls her eyes, then nudges his arm. “Get your journal out— Don’t worry, I don’t wanna look at any of the drawings— Well, I do, but I’m not going to force you. Just want to show you something.” 

He relents and gets his journal from his satchel, handing it over suspiciously, realising only after it’s in her hands how reckless he’s being, and for what? He hadn’t asked her about the blood feud between Grays and Braithwaits, nothing about the gold. The only information gleaned was that his dick still worked, and even that had only served him.

Keeping to her word, Ettie opens the book to an untouched page and submerges her paintbrush into the jug, tapping off the excess water and swirling the tip into a square of dried paint. Her hand hovers over the blank page before gliding the brush across the paper in a flourish of crimson, blooming as it settled, like petals opening at dawn. 

“Here, you try.” 

She dips the brush back into the jug to clean it off before holding it out towards Arthur. Following her direction, he scrubs the brush into a dark green pan and brings his hand to the paper. His line comes out fainter than hers and less fluid, the brush strokes looking scratchy as he reaches the edge of the page. 

“Not enough paint. Got to get it saturated.” She smiles. “But look,” she flicks over the page, “it hasn’t gone through.” She starts to explain about wetting the paper before applying the paint, working in layers, letting stuff dry, getting more and more animated, that he starts to laugh. 

“You have to start adding colour to your work. I could—” She stops. “You planin’ on seein’ me again?” The question is abrupt, as though she realises she is getting ahead of herself and needs to square off the basics first. 

He hadn’t considered that this would be more than a one-time occurrence but he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the sense of relief that had spread throughout his body and mind in the past half hour. More settled than he’d been in months, maybe even years. Perhaps next time he could get some information out of her. Perhaps next time he could prove himself a less selfish lover.

“I’d like to if you’ll have me.”

“Marvellous! Here—” She thrusts a small wooden box into his hands.

“What’s—?”

***

“A watercolour set for travelling. Not amazing quality but perfect for a beginner or someone on the move.” She gives him a wry smile “You can borrow it and show me how you get on next time you see me.” 

She’s a whirlwind, and even as he’s riding Branwen back into camp he still feels bowled over. Not sure how he’s agreed to as much as he has, or if he’s being played, or if he cares to stop it.

Tag list: @redwritr, @twola, @ultraporcelainpig, @cassietrn & @milesology

If you would like to be added/removed from the tag list, just let me know! x

[mikkomacko]

Only Devils in the Building

Episode One: Elevator from Hell

Nico Hischier x Reader, Platonic Jack Hughes x reader

Warnings: none

~

99 Hudson was the residential center of Jersey. It’s the epitome of wealth and elegance. Anyone who is anyone in Jersey lives at the 99 Hudson. From rich businessman to local celebrities to Hoboken models, 99 Hudson has got it all.

Including an absurd amount of New Jersey Devils.

Three weeks into living at the 99 I met Jack Hughes. AirPods tucked into my ears, I hit play on the Buff City Boys podcast, the familiar voice of Tony Granzia flooding through. It was probably a bad idea to be listening to the work of my former employer only three weeks after being fired but I couldn’t help it. It was the mosquito bite I had to itch, the acne spot I had to pick at, the chapped lip I couldn’t stop gnawing on.

I needed to hear everything from him.

I didn’t hear the man come up behind me, I didn’t even see him until the elevator had reached the 69th floor and his presence crowded behind me to get in. He was impatient and fidgety, standing directly in front of the closed doors and tapping his foot impatiently.

The Yankees logo on his backwards hat caught my attention first, my lips pursing with distaste at the sight. Then I noticed the way his ears stuck out, elvish and funky with his curls tucked behind them.

The elevator continued its descent and I finished eyeing him up and down just in time for him to turn over his shoulder and look at me. Icy blue eyes locked into mine, and a crooked smile took over his face for a moment before his thin lips opened to speak. Almost instantly, I realized who he was, familiar with the face of the middle Hughes brother that’s caused envy in every New York hockey team. I watched him speak, hiding my amusement when he titled his head, confused with my lack of response.

Cheeks turning pink, his already youthful face looked even younger with his flush of embarrassment and I finally pulled an AirPod out of my ear, halting the podcast.

Jack made a noise of realization, nodding his head as he laughed to himself. “I was just saying that you’d think they’d make the elevator faster for such a big building.”

That was a weird thing to say, I thought. Maybe not to people who like to make conversation with strangers, but I’m not one of them. Blinking a few times, I glimpsed at the number above the door.

5th floor

My gaze fell back to Jack. “That’s probably why there’s six elevators.” The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. I tucked my AirPod back in, waiting patiently for him to turn and leave. His eyes lingered on me for a moment, unashamed in their quizzical gaze before he stepped out and I followed. We walked a few feet apart from each other to the front door, his footsteps muffled by my AirPods but I could hear him clearly when I held the door open and he let out a cheerful, “Thanks!”

We broke away from each other after that, him heading towards an expensive looking BMW idling in on the valet and me down the sidewalk to the main street. Even as he climbed in the front seat of the car, I felt his eyes on me.

He’s cute, I thought to myself, in a weird way.

~~~~~~~~

A week later I met Nico Hischier.

Again in the elevator, I had just hit the door close button when a hand snuck into the crack of it and the two doors shot open. The same blue eyes and Yankees cap I’d seen the week before greeted me, Jack’s face splitting into a goofy smile when he saw me.

He stepped in, this time standing in the corner opposite of me. Behind him trailed another familiar face, and I assumed he was a teammate of Jack’s based on the similar gait they had, but I couldn’t quite place the name.

If Jack was cute, then this man was beautiful. He was only a few inches taller than Jack, but his large shoulders and presence seemed to take up the whole elevator. He was already watching me when I met his gaze, large brown eyes drinking me in like I was hot tea on a bitter cold rainy day. His full, pink lips were parted like he wanted to say something before they quickly fell shut. He did that for a couple seconds, lips moving like a fish out of water but he never spoke and neither did I.

He didn’t look nervous though or uncomfortable at all, unlike Jack. No, he looked content, at peace in the elevator that suddenly felt too small.

What does one say to someone who looks as good as him? I didn’t know and frankly I never thought I’d figure it out. Outside of sports, my mind has a hard time coming up with words especially words meant for men with pretty eyes.

Jack stole my attention when he started craning his neck around to look at me curiously. Turning to him with narrowed eyes, I wondered what in the world he was looking for. After a moment he stilled, eyes meeting mine and he smirked.

“Had to make sure you’d hear me this time,” he teased and I immediately pulled the white case out of my coat pocket, flicking the top open. I was never going to actually put the AirPods in but it was funny to watch the way his eyes widened in offense when I reached to pull a bud out.

“Wait! I want to talk!” He argued, reaching over to flick the top shut. I couldn’t hide my amusement that time, smiling in victory as he huffed.

“You’ve got until the doors open.” I said, trying my best to ignore the heavy gaze of his teammate on my face. Was he looking at the acne spot on my chin? Or at my mouth? Or maybe he’s noticing the little bump on the bridge of my nose? Not knowing made me want to throw something at him.

I pressed back into the wall instead, my lungs feeling tight. Unsure of what to do with myself, I focused back to Jack.

“You just move in right?”

I shrugged. “Like a month ago, why?”

“I moved in early this summer, never saw you before. And Nico has lived here forever and hadn’t seen you either.”

Where was he going with this? They were looking for me? “Congrats?”

Jack rolled his eyes. The elevator continued to climb but not nearly fast enough. Six elevators and I still get stuck in the one with him.

“Where’d you live before?”

I glanced at the number. 52nd floor.

“Buffalo,” I said, watching the number move up and up.

Jack made a noise of approval. “You know who we are.” He responded, no question about it. I didn’t conform or deny his words, just looked between the two of them. Nico was still eyeing me with that sparkly glint in his eyes.

“You’ve got a very familiar voice,” Jack continued, taking a step towards me like he was a child with a sweet tooth stepping up to an ice cream counter. “Have we met before?”

“No,” I said and the elevator showed the 65th floor.

“What’s your name?”

I waited for the elevator to ding and the doors to open. “Y/n,” I said quickly, moving in front of Nico and his large presence but refusing to look into those stupid eyes if his again. Before Jack could even begin to say another word I stepped out, heading left towards my apartment and hoping to god his was the other way.

~~~

I didn’t learn Nico’s name until two days later.

A baseball game was playing on the tv, two teams I didn't care about but the Mets were coming up next so I had it on in the background. It was good white noise to have while I worked, or at least attempted to. My laptop sat blank in front of me, all editing and writing projects falling flat. I was spending too much time caught up on Tony Granzia and it was keeping me from moving on. I knew that was the truth but that didn't keep from racking up listens for him.

I would have been annoyed by the banging on my door, loud and insistent, if I had actually been doing something worthwhile. But any attempts at trying to get back on the saddle were failing and I couldn't look at my screen anymore. So I got up and went to the door, answering it because I already knew who was going to be on the other side and I wasn't that annoyed by him anymore.

"Good you're home," Jack greeted, Nico standing behind him looking far more sheepish than he had in the elevator. He still looked at me with those glimmering eyes but he seemed to be chewing on the inside of his lip by the way his jaw moved and his dimple sunk into his cheek.

Jack pushed forward and I barely had time to move aside before he would've quite literally mowed me down. Nico stayed in his place for a moment, wide eyed as his friend moved deeper into my entryway and then he smiled, embarrassed and shy.

"Uh, Nico." He introduced, taking his hand out of his sweats pocket to hold out to me. I reached over and shook it, trying not to think about how his palms were warm and a bit sweaty, but he was strong. So strong that my pinky finger popped when he squeezed his finger and I pulled my hand back in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mumbled, but I blew it off and just moved further into the side of the wall so he could come in. Nico seemed to shrink into himself, shoulders hunching forward and he stuck his hands back in his pockets like he was trying to seem smaller. It didn't work and I couldn't help but smile when I closed the door and turned to find him toeing off his Nikes by my discarded shoes.

"Hischier, right?" I asked when he was done and his head whipped around to look at me, eyes crinkling with the large smile that broke across his face.

"Yeah!" He confirmed, "It's Swiss."

There was no other way to describe the swooping feeling in my stomach other than swoon. I was swooning over Nico Hischier who so obviously was Swiss if the slight lisp in his accent and his sock clad feet were anything to go by. That and the beanie on his head had a tiny Swiss flag embroidered on the fold.

"You don't say," I giggled, leading him into the living room. We found Jack there, standing behind my couch and watching the tv. He waited for me to sit on the couch and Nico in the recliner next to it before hopping over the back, shoes and all falling on my couch.

Nico shot him a warning look, thick eyebrows lowering in a scolding look and Jack immediately dropped his feet to the rug.

"Orioles game? Really?" Jack muttered, nose scrunching in judgement and I resisted the urge to tell him that his team was looking worse off than Baltimore.

"I had it on while I was working." I said instead, reaching forward to close my laptop. Not before he caught sight of the blank document though and an eager grin took over his face.

Jack looked at Nico with wide eyes, tipping his head towards me as if trying to get Nico to speak. He just looked at me though, sinking into the cushions of the recliner and that peaceful glaze washed over his face.

I bit at my bottom lip, trying my best to stop from grinning like a fool at him. Jack, ever impatient, took over the conversation again. "Looks like you're just as unproductive us which is great because I have an idea!"

"That must be really hard for you." I replied, fluttering my eyelashes innocently when he frowned with offense.

"It is," he played along, "anyway, I googled you and found your old podcast, the one you did in Buffalo that was really good and then you disappeared from and now it's bad. Anyway, we have the whole summer and we think you should start another one."

It took a bit for his idea to sink in. Mostly because I couldn't believe he googled me and I wanted to know what else came up besides my work in Buffalo. But also because I never imagined Jack Hughes would be bursting into my apartment to tell me that I need my own show.

"What?"

Groaning loudly, Jack grabbed ahold of my shoulders and made me look him dead in the eye.

"Do not touch me." I mumbled, shaking off his hold.

He released me, holding his hands up in the air in defense but his gaze remained serious and locked on mine. "You need to start your own podcast, with us, specifically but like it would mainly be yours because we don't know what we're doing?"

I couldn't help it. "What?" I said again. Not that I didn't hear him or understand, I just didn't know what to say. I had worked on Buff City Boys for three years and only had two episodes I could really claim as mine. I had other editing and segment ideas but they technically fell under Tony's name. And when I had tried to go beyond, be more than a background voice and editor, I had been fired. How was I supposed to do this on my own let alone from scratch? Buff City Boys at least had a following when I got there, something to build off of. I have nothing...except two NHL players.

"You're good." Nico cut in, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to be closer to us. "I listened to it with Jack a few times, your football episode was great."

Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I met Nico's gaze. He had such expressive eyes, like every thought and feeling he's ever had has bled out of them. Certain and strong, he didn't waver when I helplessly stared at him for a moment.

"I stole your draft team," he added, dimple sinking into his cheek as he shyly smiled "and for the first time since I moved here I didn't come in last. I made it all the way to the SuperBowl."

I couldn't help but laugh picturing this European hockey player listening to my Fantasy Football breakdown episode and modeling his team after it. I bet Jack was furious, he looked like the type to reveal in his friends embarrassment.

"If you can fix his fantasy team, you can do anything."

The tv screen flashed as the Mets game began, and I sat there for a moment watching the starting lineup pop-up. Nico, pleased with his contributions settled back into the plush chair and propped his feet up on my coffee table. I could feel Jack's eyes on me though and I knew any second he'd be bugging for an answer.

"What do you get out of it?"

It wasn't technically an agreement but they could hear it in my voice because Nico's gaze shined with pride and Jack fist pumped just once before reclining back against the couch.

"Chicks dig guys with podcast." He smirked and I snorted in disbelief.

"Yeah ok, as if hockey player isn't already a bright red flag."

I saw him pout out of the corner of my eye, looking to Nico for backup who was watching us like we were his favorite sitcom. "We get to hang out with you," he said, "which would be fun. And I don't know how radio works either so that'd also be fun."

"Podcast isn't really radio." I replied, biting back a giggle.

"You know what I mean," He scoffed, "besides we need a smart friend, teach us to not be red flags or something."

I looked over at him, found him with big begging doe eyes and before I could second guess myself I said, "Okay, let's do it."

Jack and him high-fived, I returned to watching my favorite team on the TV and Jack tapped the top of my head in thanks. The three of us fell silent, comfortable in this new odd friendship and for the first time since I moved to Jersey I felt like I was home.

Nico broke the silence first. "Can you explain the pitches? Because like what?"

"Oh my god!" Jack huffed, pushing himself up from the couch and moving around the back to go dig around my kitchen most likely. I laughed, patting the cushion next to me and Nico was quick to settle in next to me.

"Don't listen to Jack, he's just mad that we have a better bullpen than the Yankees."

Nico's thigh pressed into the side of mine, warm even though the leggings I was wearing and I didn't stop myself from turning my knee towards him.

"Um hello?! We have Gerrit Cole!" Jack yelled from the kitchen. I rolled my eyes, snickering with Nico.

"Call me when the spider tack runs out and we'll talk about Cole."

Somewhere behind us Jack grumbled and muttered, saying god knows what and Nico just watched and listened.

Six elevators in the whole building and I got stuck with them. How lucky was I?

[the-californicationist]

The Devil's Summer

Konig/Reader TW: Rape, sexual assault, corpses, murder, violence

I am not being playful when I say that if you find any of these tags disturbing that you should skip this fic. Reading this story is not worth making yourself feel uncomfortable or causing yourself pain. Please take care of yourself first and foremost.

MDNI/18+ NO EXCEPTIONS

AO3 Link

A tall, foreign stranger comes to town with his masked crew of bandits. They rob the train station and the bank, but the big one… he has his sights set on a different sort of prize: you.

The summer had been like an open mouth, unbreathing, unmoving, but warm and wet and still in its bearing. The bayou lay like a lolling tongue over the swampland, and the sweetness of the azaleas could not make up for the stench of its lazy, murky flow. Bald cypress trees lined the river like rotten teeth, their graying, dull bark holding evidence of the cavities of selfish men, black bullet holes from selfish gunfire. The rope burn on the tall, gnarled bows left scars as if they were old wounds, and they were. Your brother’s innocent body had been the cause for one, and you were glad he wasn’t here to witness them today.  

The Devil didn’t know how hot it could get, but you did. You could barely move in the high noon of the day, and as the cicadas screamed, so you wanted to as well. The air lay on you like an awful hand, pressing you flat with its damp, punishing palm. It kept you from sleep, and it threatened you with steady, unrelenting torment. Your skin grew pink and tight from the ruby-colored sun, gleaming and immutable as it sagged in the cloudless firmament. Like the tangle of Spanish moss that hung in the trees outside, swaying back and forth like strange fruit, your hair clung to your neck, vampiric. 

Your father was dead, much good may it do him, as were most of the other people in your town. Since the early hours of the morning, you’d sat on your aching knees in the wet bank of Bayou Têche, providing sustenance for the mosquitos who feasted on your unguarded flesh. Your hands were bound with wire twine, and it cut into your wrists hard enough for them to bleed. The flies swarmed you, and you’d long since given up trying to fight them off. The man who had come to deliver this day to you and the other few inhabitants of your town was watching your future unfurl before you, as patient as the summer sun. 

He hadn’t shown his face, but you knew he was a white man. Those pale, ice-blue eyes couldn’t have been borne from Creole blood. If you were honest with yourself, something in your chest told you that those eyes weren’t even human. They were situated behind a black, heavy hangman’s hood that covered him from head to neck, and it was stained with blood and all manner of other liquids. The humidity made it cling to his nose and jaw, and you saw the aquiline shape disturb the smoothness of the fabric. 

The hangman wore a large-brimmed cowboy hat on his head constructed of fine, black felt. It was very much out-of-season, meant for a cool dry winter. Despite your suffering, you could imagine and empathize that his head and neck must be near boiling. 

His body was immense. He looked like he was seven feet high, and he was as broad as a door. His heavy musculature moved slowly, teasingly, but you had watched him strike like a water moccasin, deadly accurate and blindingly fast. Atop his demonic draft horse, he looked like he was one of the Hessians that Sister Campbell had described to you in school, when you’d been allowed to go.

The Hessian was a fine shot. He’d killed most of the men in town by his own hand, picking them off like he was elbow-deep in a blackberry bush, choosing the biggest ones first to stain his hands in their sweet juices. Your father had been near the end, no longer a threat in his old age. The white hair of his beard was painted with red stripes, coughed up in those final moments of futility, and the dark skin of his cheek made the colors that much more vibrant. You wished his eyes were closed. You didn’t want him to see what may happen to you now. 

He’d been staring at you for quite some time. Although he hadn’t been the one to tie you up, it was what he wanted. The will of his men and of your small town folded under his brutal control, and now that everyone was dead, he dominated the silence with comfortable ease. 

You watched him swing a long, thick leg over the saddle, lowering himself to the wet ground with a thud. His boots were worn and filthy, not intended for walking through the black bayou waters and shores, and his spurs were sharpened into curled spikes. Each step was a promise. The gun in his hand would be your reward, you were certain of it. 

Imagining all of your hopes and dreams seemed disgusting to you now. The shine of the gun was nothing like the glittering gold ring you’d wanted to wear to your wedding, if you had one. You’d wanted children, a whole litter of them, and you wanted to cook jambalaya for them and dress them in matching flour sacks, all lined up in a row. You wanted to braid their hair in the way your mother had braided yours, secreting away little prayers between each bite, locking them in place with an extra twist. 

You would have none of that. The only thing for you now was this demon. Whatever he wanted had replaced your own desires. You waited for his wanting to find its end. 

The dirty barrel of the gun pressed under your chin, its soot gritty and black against your skin, and your jaw turned up to the blinding sky to look into the coolness of his gaze. He looked like he was smiling at you, which was worse than his fury, and you held back the bile rising in your throat, burning you as hot as a brand. 

“Fils putain,” you snarled without raising your voice, spitting on the gloved hand that had the gun to your neck. 

You watched the spit bubble white across the black leather, his thumb as wide as a root, and you heard it drip into the mud at your knees when it ran in thick rivulets across his knuckles.

He smiled again with his eyes, removed the gun from you to lift his hand to his face. As he did so, he lifted the hood so that you could watch his mouth as he licked your spit from the glove, tasting the sour sting of your bile and vitriol. You saw his pale, ghostly lips, scarred and maligned, peel away from sharp incisors as he laved his tongue across the back of his hand, clad in shining silver like two daggers. The rest of his teeth were bright and straight and ready.

The pain you felt from the butt of his gun was sudden and shattering. The crack of your cheekbone exploded in your face like a collapsing star, white hot and dying. You felt like you were dying. You landed, face down in the mud, vomiting and coughing and crying. There was nothing more meaningful than your sobbing, and your body prioritized it over everything else. 

Your assailant knelt in the muddy bank of the bayou with you, letting his boots dip into the shallow waters where minnows hoped to feed on the larvae that lay sprinkled across the surface like salt in a stock. He had removed his gloves and was cupping your face, gently soothing the wound that he had caused. That pale, bloodless mouth was kissing you, leaving a trail of little, soft contacts over the ruined skin on your face, and the blood from his cut was staining him crimson. He replaced the hood and picked you up off of the ground. 

At first, you couldn’t walk, and all the blood that had been pressed out of your lower extremities was now flooding back in, making your bones ache from the inside out. You stumbled next to him, and he carried you like you were as light as his sidearm. One of his men approached you and spoke to your tall devil in his language, foreign and loud. 

They’d robbed the small train station, killing Mr. Fusilier, and they blew up the track, stopping the sheriff from being able to send for help. Sheriff Guidry was dead, laying in the small graveyard next to the church, and you found it odd that he’d died laid over a headstone. You were sure there was poetry there, but you weren’t smart enough to know what kind. 

Your captor handed you off to one of his men, a thin, wiry man with a large mustache. He smelled like sulfur and tobacco. His grip was weaker than the hangman’s, and there was a coldness to his touch that made you uncomfortable. 

He was taking you back up to your house. You didn’t know whether or not it was worth it to fight him off. He was smaller than the other one, but your cheek still throbbed, fresh and mean. He sat you down at your own kitchen table like it wasn’t yours, like you hadn’t cleaned its worn oak slats every morning since you were old enough to hold a rag. 

Yanking out a chair beside you, he sat, rolling a long cigarette, and leaving the twisted matchstick on the tabletop, marring the grain. You wanted to rail against him, to wail and scream that he was ruining it, that your mother had set all of her meals down in that very spot — crawfish etouffee, filé gumbo, rice and beans — and that you missed her laugh and the way she smelled like white pepper and rosemary oil. 

The cheek that had been hit couldn’t have throbbed any harder, and something twisted within you wished that the large man was still there, wiping away the hurt. 

The one with the mustache spoke in a slow, Texan drawl,

“What’s your name?”

You rolled your eyes up to meet his, hoping that the hate you felt was loaded in them like the bullets in his gun, 

“Eve.”

“Like the Bible?”

You didn’t reply. He grabbed you around your knee and pulled you towards him, your chair screeching across the floor,

“Bitch, I’m talkin’ to you. You think you’re too good for me, huh? Fuckin’ whore.”

You were on the table then, spread out and plated like a red fish, all meat and bones and sauce. He was going to eat you alive, and what could you do about it? Your bound hands bit into each other like the fangs of a snake. You kicked out, hard, but he caught you. 

Then, you felt his hands ripping away the fabric of your cotton dress. There wasn’t much left of it to ruin. You wondered if the button you mended last week on the collar was still intact. You were never as good as buttons as your mother was. 

Dirty fingers dug around between your legs, finding what they wanted to, shoving aside your bloomers and wetting themselves one by one, dipping into you brutally, soaking the pads over and over like a candle was dipped in wax, like a pen into a font of ink, and you hoped it stained him. 

You screamed until he stopped you, planting a smelly hand across your mouth. You bit it, taking his bitter flesh with you. 

“Ah, fuck! Son of a bitch!”

Clutching his wound, he backed away from you. Then, when he raised his eyes, he looked behind you at a horror you could not see. Then, he died on your kitchen floor. The bullet sliced through his dark brown eye and splattered his brain and face all over your kitchen counter. There were two big, flaky biscuits left over from your breakfast that morning, and they looked like someone had slathered them in a rich, fruity compote. 

You wanted to see who had saved you, but you knew already. His huge boots made the table rattle beneath your burning wrists, and you could hear his enraged breathing, dampened by the mask. It was your Hessian.

He stood over you for a moment, looking disturbed by your appearance. You had disappointed him somehow. You were crying, but you didn’t stop for his benefit. It wouldn’t matter anyway, you figured. Might as well give in to the feeling. 

Your body was being lifted, carefully, and carried to your father’s bedroom. It was the nearest to the kitchen, just off of the first hallway. A cross-stitch goose you’d made when you were twelve hung neatly on the wall below the lantern. You remembered the way the threads used to sound when they ran to and fro through the linen. The goose wore a little blue bow, and her beak was the most beautiful goldenrod yellow. 

The giant man lay you on your bed, the blood from your wrists surely ruining your duvet. Was it still your duvet? Did you actually own anything anymore?

The mattress sagged under your weight, and it groaned deeper as it sagged under his. 

He unbound your wrists and took a careful look at them. Then, he peeled away the ripped edge of your dress, shaking his head sadly,

“I am sorry, Liebling. My men should know better than to touch what is mine.”

You let tears and snot run freely down your face. 

“What is your name?”

The same question. And why did it matter? Who gave a shit what your goddamn name was? It wasn’t going to help you. 

“...E-Eve…”

“Eve...” He dragged out the vowels like he had dragged you into the house, slowly and against your will.

“I have been called many names,” he leaned down to your neck to smell your skin, whispering into it, “But, you may call me Kӧnig.” 

When his hands ran up under your dress, they did not fumble, they were not brutal, and yet the pain of them hurt you anyway. He didn’t force you to open, but your body yielded to him nonetheless, wilting for him like a flower in the sun. You became pliant, and your sobs went from desperate to something laden with strife. You had not consented to his touch, and yet your body welcomed him in with open arms, eager to host the traitor at the gate.

He knelt. As he began to lick you between your legs, he smelled your scent, lifting his hood and letting it pool along your belly, cold as his hot mouth made wet contact with your skin. The way he suckled from you reminded you of the calves in the spring, pumping their mouths onto their mothers’ teats and filling their throats with her warm cream, selfish and relentless. His nose tickled the dark curls above your folds, and you wondered if he was being teased by them, if his nostrils could smell your fear and if they misunderstood it as desire. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, pleased, “You are so sweet, my little Eve. So eager for me, hm?”

A growling sob escaped from your throat, and all at once you felt like you would vomit again. He caught your face in his hands before you did, lowering you to the floor and holding your jaw up to face him. Knocking off his hat, he pulled the hood from his face and you saw the gruesomeness there. It wasn’t as bad as you’d feared. Your mother had always told you that the promises of the darkness never amounted to much in the light. You wondered how true that was now. 

“I will show you how eager you make me, Liebling.”

He pulled off the button fly of his cotton britches, and his heavy cock tumbled out of them, rolling into the center of his body, pounding with blood and want. He placed the tip at your lips, and although he could have ignored your volition, he begged you instead, providing you with the illusion of choice. 

“Kiss it for me, Eve. Be a good girl for your Kӧnig, ja?”

You did not comply. You were your mother’s daughter after all. 

He shoved your face onto his length with a calm sort of precision. You didn’t bother to make it easy on him, letting your teeth drag against the velveteen slip of skin, nor did you bite down. You were already dead, and you had decided to act like it. 

“Are you not pleased, Liebe? I will give you what you want then,” he laughed quietly to himself, the curl of his smile broken into shards by his scarring, “Silly me. Playing my little games. I am such a tease.”

He pushed you to the ground, shoving your face into the floorboards, letting you look under your own bed. You saw small piles of dirt and a glittering ornament, lost from the last Christmas you’d had. You felt him preparing you from behind. Although you had not married him, you and an old beau had gotten this far. But, this was something else. The way he stretched you was like an intrusion. Your hip bones ached under his drooling rod, and you could feel the sharp tear of your thin skin. 

“Oh, Scheiße! So tight for me. I want to come in you already, my darling.”

You let him fill you, and you tried to ignore the electric pleasure that he crafted in you, spinning a spell over you and forcing your orgasms with his cock and hand, one after the other, making you tremble beneath him, laughing all the time,

“So pretty. Coming for me just like a dream. Such a good girl, Eve.”

You were out of tears. 

After he was finished with you, he carried you to his horse and put you in the saddle, climbing up behind you and taking the reins. You felt his come and your blood dripping out of you and onto the black leather, wetting you between your thighs, making you slide across the seat, back and forth. 

The hot wind blew in your face as he rode you out of town, and you saw the smoke from all of the burning buildings floating high, high into heaven. And you wondered if God could smell the mesquite bark as it smoldered.