Angels&Demons-stuck Masterpost

[rv]

Prospit dreamers => Angels
Derse dreamers => Demons
Sollux => Dual-messenger

Comments

[recordscratching]

[Dave doesn't do punches. He doesn't get into close-combat fights, doesn't kick or hit with his limbs. The Strider line uses weapons, long-ranged attacks and it all focuses in using a sword. Dave has a sword, he has a ton, and they are locked up in his sylladex. Dave also runs on a series of ticks and tocks, precise and in-time, and the ticks are outrunning the tocks and the tocks are shitting all over the ticks right now.]

[A politician has been a regular at Dave's casino, and he was just ripe for the all-out corrupting. He was already a sleaze doing everything he could to blacken his soul, and all Dave would have had to do to push him over the edge was have one night, one night to talk to him, slip ideas into his mind, set the timer and let it stew into an oily bastard feast able to feed the lifespans and energies of a room of demons threefold. Of course, all of that would have been Dave's, all of it, with one night, one night, and it's been ruined. A tiny, stubborn, loud fucking mouthed trollangel has managed to undo what he's taken months to marinate in a matter of minutes. The guy wasn't hard to track down, his hotel room all too easy to get into, and just fucking asking for Dave's fist in his face. Twice. Thrice. Until he was fucking done.]

[Dave straightens up after his barrage of untimed punches, smooths his suit. He doesn't know what this fucker's problem is, but it's dusting his territory and he wants it gone. His knuckles hurt and are spotted with a bright red; if it's his blood or this angel's, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care, he's going to make a show of licking it off anyway. Dirk never taught him intimidation tactics, and Dave didn't have to learn from him as much as he did from watching him. He's an aggravatingly unknown amount of seconds from thrusting his sword into the wall just next to Karkat's ear, but he has to save that, that isn't a Strider trick and he's not going to let the fear of fuchsia slip into his system.]

[Dave tries to snatch a grasp on time, oneandatwoandathreeandafour, letting the tip of his tongue slide over each knuckle for precisely three-fourths of a second. He's losing control, and it doesn't show on the outside; his mind is speeding backward and slowing forward and skipping and fuck he hasn't had this happen in a while. This angel gets under his skin something fierce, if only because he's so damn annoying. Dave slips his control back on, re-smooths his satin jacket, starts to rebuild his spirit walls.]

The name's Dave Strider, motherfucker, and I'm afraid you've gone up and landed yourself on my bad side.

[romcom]

[Karkat's pretty fucking sure his nose is broken, but the pain just makes him angrier. There's hot red blood dripping from his chin and pinkish tears streaking down his cheeks, all pain and rage, fear absent from his eyes. He hates this fucker for this, for hunting him down and turning the usual discourse of their lives into something personal and for having the fucking gall to make him bleed.]

[Karkat gets off the floor, pushing off against the wall and making no attempt to wipe the still-flowing blood from his face. Dave is acting like this confrontation is nothing, but Karkat saw the look on his face a moment ago, because even getting a fist to the jaw isn't enough to make him stop watching faces. He's been a low-class, unworthy angel for as long as he can remember, and his ability to tell what others are thinking helped him rise up in spite of the color smeared all over Dave's knuckles.]

You're a fucking demon, fucktard, you don't have a good side!

[Karkat probably should have hit him by now, but he quietly hates violence and isn't eager to go for it. Opening his mouth lets blood in, though, and the taste of it is enough to push him over that line. He lunges forward and tackles the demon, mouth open with intent to bite straight through his shoulder.]

[recordscratching]

[Dave rolls his eyes and shrugs inside his suit jacket. Oh boo fucking hoo, little angel's got some bark after all. He puts a hand over where his heart would be, and if he deemed the kid worth the acting, would have done some grade-a theatrics. As it is, he's just deadtone, save for the lingering Southern accent.]

Ain't no sense in wounding my poor forsaken heart, now.

[He's not expecting too much from the little guy, and the taunting calm is quick to be replaced by holy fucking shit shock. He yells as he falls ass first onto the floor, and when he pulls his fist back, it's fleshy and human. Out of instinct he has no fucking control over, what doesn't punch Karkat but, instead, slams into his back is a clawed and black-feathered hand, talons first and digging right in. He growls and feels his teeth getting sharper, all against his will and because he just got fucking bit by this stupid ass angel.]

God fucking dammit, you little shit--!

[He digs his talons deeper into Karkat's back and yanks him off, likely allowing some of his own flesh to go with him. He dislodges his bird arm from him, and curses again. He hates letting shit get under his skin like that, and that was a defense reaction that only came out when he was caught so off his guard he was kicked into survival mode. Yeah, a shoulder bite wasn't a big deal, and his flesh is already burn-tingling as it heals and pieces back together, but fuck that scared the shit out of him. There are black crow feathers on the floor, and Dave glares at them; his crow form was his signature one, and it was the first to come out. His arm reverts back to the human shell, and his teeth sink back into dull and straight. Collect your cool, Dave, collect it, keep it, don't let your voice totally shake.]

Was that really fucking necessary? I liked this jacket, ladies and gents dig the fucking thing when they're humpin' up for some Strider-brand fucking.