Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of wind howling through the towering buildings surround the area. Dogs barking, cars beeping, and the chatter of demon kind fade out to surrender to the sound of a groovy beat seeping from one particular alleyway.

Silhouette framed by the neon green light beaming from a nearby sign, a figure sits atop a metal oil barrel, head bopping subtly to the steady rhythm of drums. They fiddle with a set of syringes sitting atop the barrel between their thighs, taped fingers steady and practiced.

Such fluidity comes with being a drug addict of several years, though Coil accredits it more so to the fact he’s amazingly powerful and balanced with rock-hard abs beaten to death every few—it’s the addiction. His fingers are steady because of the addiction.

It’s a familiar routine; sanitize his forearm skin, feel for a vein, take out the air bubbles in the syringe and squeeze the liquid gold inside himself.

Many people would probably start spazzing the moment they get this kind of stuff in them, but unlike popular belief, most cases would be a severe case of placebo encouraged by the need to live up to the expectations of said drugs. Apparently those expectations contain shaking like rabies infested incels and gaining the strength of the gods.

That, unfortunately for them, is not the case. Coil hums to the beat as a rather dull, somewhat soothing effect slowly comes over him, a pleased curl to his lips as his secret crystal prep formula does its job. It’s like taking a shot of rum before storming out the cove he calls home and heading to a party to get absolutely obliterated. A pick-me-up of sorts. At least, that’s all he can compare it to. Not sure what else compares. A pre-wrapped blunt, maybe? Eh, maybe not.

Tossing the used syringe into a plastic bag (just because he’s a heavy indulger in illegal substances doesn’t mean he lacks the morality to clean up after himself. Touche assumption, piss stain.) Coil pauses for the beat drop and smacks his palms onto the barrel, rocking with a low, raspy laugh when he happens to line it up perfectly. Nothing beats hitting a beat drop in a place as echoey as an alley. Makes him feel higher than a joint every once in a while.

Following that line of thought, nothing plummets his mood faster than the distinct sound of wheels rolling against the road.

Glancing up from where he had been getting a handful of crystal dust from a packet also atop the barrel, Coil furrows his brows, puts aside his former mission of smashing crystals against his horns, and listens closer.

Ah. The familiar cadence of a skateboard echoes, getting closer and closer. Coil’s expression turns exasperated as he lets the dust fall from his fingers and back into the bag, though he cant help the part of him being mildly impressed at the show of commitment to his whereabouts. Sighing lightly through his nose, he zips up the crystals and shoves everything off the barrel and into his duffel bag, tossing it elsewhere to deal with later.

The sound of wheels pitches sharply for a split second and quietens before ending in a skid noise. Coil raises a brow, identifying the sound immediately. Basic kickflip. Mr. Night Guard must be losing his magic touch. Or maybe it’s the fact it’s currently half past two in the morning. Could be either choice really, not that it excuses such a plain trick choice.

The sounds grow louder. Tongue stuck to the front of his teeth, Coil balances with a hand gripping the front of the barrel and leans back to reach over to his miniature boombox, turning down the tune just in time for a harsh skid to bless his ears.

Grinning doopily, eyes sharp and flashing in the neon light, Coil looks back to see his favorite buddy kicking off his gear, the other demon’s shaggy hair parting way for one very pissed-looking eye to stare back at him.

Coil leans back on his hands, head tilting to the side, teeth glinting brightly. “Hey, bud.”

And then an array of blasphemous, felony-worthy expletives stream out into the night sky.

He expects the way Skateboard stomps up to him and jabs a finger into his chest, the ugliest looking sneer on that hair-shielded face. Chuckles as the pressure on his chest makes him rock back and grip at the edge of the barrel for balance.

“—cking death machines tearin’ apart the city for you, and what do you do?? Run up and down the street like the deities didn’t bestow you with basic common sense— actually, how the hell are you considered smarter than me? Because this is not smart person behavior—”

Coil drags a hand down Skateboard’s cheek, a exaggeratedly whimsical expression on his face.

Skateboard stops his – admittedly creative – rambling, face neutralizing quicker than the snap of a finger. Both of them know whats coming next. It’s tragic, really, how Skate tries to avoid the inevitable.

“Dude.”

“Shhhh...” Coil hushes while clutching his other hand to his chest, eyebrows tilting up at the ends. “Listen, cabron, for I am about to tell you a tale that the stars ordained.”

“Coil. Please. Do not make me smack you off that barrel—” Skateboard’s voice shakes in a way akin to the wobbling of plastic sheets. Coil bites back a guffaw, throat expanding like a pufferfish for one brief moment before he frantically silences himself.

“...Can’t we pretend... that perhaps, the airplanes in the—”

The ensuing scuffle echoes through the alley as Skateboard wrangles him into a headlock, shaking him viciously like a ragdoll.

“Everytime I see your mug I have to listen to that damn song, why the hell were you born the way you were?!” Skateboard hisses into his ear as Coil finally lets free the guffaw in his chest and doubles over, dragging the other demon with him.

They land in a tumble of limbs, Skateboard squawking as he’s crushed,

“Okay, okay, get off of me dude. My back is actually killing me.”

“Alright, alright.” Coil rolls off his best friend, hopping up onto his feet with a small bounce while Skateboard stays splayed on the floor. There’s an note of genuine exhaustion to Skateboard’s disgruntled groan that Coil catches without a pause. His grin morphs in a frown, confused and concerned.

“Oi, doofus.” He calls roughly, holding out a hand.

Skate hums in response, putting more weight on Coil than usual when he’s pulled into sitting upright, and that flicker of concern in Coil increases.

“The hell are you doing out here anyway? You should’a been in bed ages ago. Didn’t you have a comp’ or whatever was going on in your gang earlier?”

Chapter Text

Ghostwalker doesn’t know how he and Illumina ended up as work-partners.

In all honesty, he hadn’t even been looking for partnerships with the other deities. He spent most of his days reading the literature the world had to offer and doing the basic duties of every deity. Someone had to do the basics. He doubts half of his brethren even bother to do anything other than wipe entire populations off the map and busy themselves with petty, useless rivalries.

Being on his own is the norm as well. The world doesn’t revolve around him, and he doesn’t revolve around the world. He simply wanders as he wishes when he has the spare time, sometimes aiding in those Phights that Valk begs him to be a part of and minding his own business.

And then Illumina happened.

Ghostwalker isn’t quite sure what inspired the other deity to approach him, especially when he himself is unironically called the least interesting deity to be around.

“You want my help?”

The two of them are sitting atop the clouds, seated at the marble carved gazebo nursing a small, friendly table, some stone stools, a small stove top for brewing tea, and a multitude of shelves adorning mystical plants and books all around them. Illumina stands by the entrance facing the east, leaning leisurely on the pillar with the pink and gold hues drawing a shadow across his neutral face. His wing cast a shadow over Ghostwalker from where he sits at the table with a book before him, spine straight and hands respectfully resting on his thighs. Staring apathetically at the picturesque view before him, Ghostwalker cannot help but wonder if Illumina had intentionally settled down by the lighting of the East wayward entrance.

“Well, if we think back to our earlier conversation, you will find that that is exactly what I just said, but I suppose even deities such as yourself can miss the most common of social ques.” Illumina replies flatly, bright, dripping voids for eyes squinting as a fierce gust of wind curls its way through the gazebo. His hair – neck length, white strands that he pushes back and around from his face – gets whipped around as a result. “I have some business that would go much smoother with your assistance. You don’t have to involve yourself too much if that scares you, but I’d like someone who can actually stick to a contract. Unfortunately, those types of souls are hard to find these days. Congratulations; You’re what the mortals down there would call a last resort.”

Ghostwalker feels his brows furrow as his own short, groomed hair attempts to mingle with the wind though he makes no attempt to fix it when a few strands droop in front of his face. The insinuation that he would be scared of whatever Illumina got up to in his free time falls flat. Both of them know his lack of emotional connection, so the idea of him fearing anything isn’t feasible. However, Ghostwalker has learned to take what Illumina says at face value and ignore the wordplays and mind tricks he always seems to indulge in. “Do I have anything to gain by cooperating?”

“I don’t suppose you would accept a friend as a likely answer, but who knows, maybe you actually are that lonely, so yes. You stand to gain a friend.” Illumina flashes a humorless smile that’s all fangs and no emotion. “It would do you some good to learn the ways of companionship, no?”

A friend. The idea itself is laughable, but Ghostwalker finds no amusement in it. The deities – they do not go around making friends with one another. The closest of the deities he has seen are Windforce and Firebrand, but they don’t exactly have a choice in their personal relationship considering the two are sister and brother. Deities being friends isn’t feasible either, and Ghostwalker surmises that he wouldn’t care for such a thing anyway.

“Then, I refuse your offer.”

The brief, almost imperceptible flicker of bafflement on Illumina’s face leans towards the side of humorous. Ghostwalker pays it no mind, closing his book before the bookmark flies away. Truly, where is all this wind coming from?

“Well, good thing I wasn’t counting on that working.” He hears Illumina murmur, and the other deity goes quiet for a few moments, enough for Ghostwalker to wonder if he is going to stand in this windy gazebo and wait for a different answer. It’s not even a second later that he dismisses the thought. Illumina tends to get bored quickly if there is no banter to be had. No speech to pick apart. No egos to bruise.

Ghostwalker spares a glance at him; Illumina is throwing his listless gaze around the area, no doubt pondering what his next move will be. He is easy on the eyes like this, expression relaxed but not exactly blank, those off-white, wavy strands whipping his face. Had he shown himself to the masses of Inphinity more often, Illumina might’ve been able to garner popularity through means other than something like mind control. Though Ghostwalker would argue that physical attraction is a poor reason for people to devote themselves to something or someone, and Illumina’s ability to scare people away with his dripping eyes and otherworldly intimidation wouldn’t help much either way.

Illumina, however, gives off the impression that he does not care how he gets his followers. The usage of mind control comes like second nature to him, and certainly, he enjoys the novelties that come with such a privilege no matter the circumstances.

“I suppose there’s no helping it. You cannot force a mule to walk if he does not wish to. But… on a different note, have I not helped you numerous times regarding… a certain event?”

Ghostwalker pauses and looks cautiously at Illumina, already with an inkling of where this conversation is going.

“You were practically begging me to aid you. I couldn’t say no to my beloved brethren, now could I?” Illumina drawls, “Did you not say you would offer your help if the time came?”

“I thought I already offered such help.” Ghostwalker admits unsurely, and he grimaces slightly at the single, raised brow that eases its way up Illumina’s listless face, the unspoken words ‘Really now?’ resting in the air around them.

“You mean to say that a simple, mortal snack is enough to pay the price of pulling the strings of the ever so insistent Flipside duo? Shall we begin repaying each other with rubbish now? The give and take of the world is based monumently on the value of your actions and what you have to offer. Should someone repay me with a bag of grain after I save their life from what should’ve been irreversible fate? Or shouldn’t they pay me equally by dedicating their life to me for as long as time permits? I like to think that we both know the answer to that.”

Ah.

At a loss for words, Ghostwalker’s gaze flits to the table as a momentary pause comes over the currently, rather stressful conversation. Something about this situation is bothersome; a constant, mild prick against his mind that gives him the impression that talking to Illumina is taking more energy than it should. Perhaps he should be more curt with his refusal and leave it at that? He has too many books that he wishes to finish today, and the sun never seems to stay up in the sky long enough for him to comfortably do so.

Heaven and Hell above… Dealing with Illumina has always been so tiring. It is in instances such as this that Ghostwalker understands, if not only by a tiny margin, why so many of the deities do not like Illumina.

Stifling a quiet sigh through his nose, Ghostwalker looks towards Illumina and offers what he hopes to be a somewhat agreeable expression, relaxing his features, softening the rigidness of his spine. “I… forgot to consider the value of my actions. Apologies. However, my answer remains the same. I would rather not get involved with whatever you get up to behind closed curtains. You will have to find another person to aid you.”

Something… off shifts in the air. Ghostwalker feels a bit oppressed, the area a bit stifling, as he stares steadily into Illumina’s narrowing, unnervingly bright-white eyes. An inkling tells him the average mortal would be cowering in fear right now, especially when Illumina flashes a strained smile that shows slivers of pearly whites, and a sharpened glint shines in his gaze. Is he… perhaps, mad? Upset…? Ghostwalker isn’t sure. He’s never been completely sure when it comes to a concept such as emotions. He continues to study the subtle shifts in Illumina’s features as the other deity shifts his weight against the pillar and huffs sharply, attempting to the best of his abilities to pick up on what he knows others would tell him is blatantly written and handed to him on a bright blinking sign.

“You say that as if I commit heinous crimes.” Illumina finally mutters, smile shifting into a brief, vicious grin before the look vanishes all together. “My fellow deity, is it your intention to wound me in such a way? I know you aren’t exactly the brightest but insinuating such a thing of me; I don’t believe anyone would appreciate it regardless of if they are innocent or not.”

“Besides—”

Illumina’s voice takes a bit of a drawl.

“—I am sure I wouldn’t be the only one taking liberties behind closed doors. There is more happening than you think. Perhaps, if you put down your books and took a detour from your perpetually boring routine, you’d discover more than you care to know. We deities; we aren’t the most innocent bunch.”

A silence settles in the area.

Ghostwalker breaks eye contact to look towards the book on the table, rolling Illumina’s words around in his head. In all honesty, he does not care for what the other deities get up to in their free time. Knowing such things would not benefit him very much either way, and there is simply so much going on regarding all of them that he cannot bother to try and learn the ins and outs, so staying in the background – diligently performing his duties and thoroughly enjoying his leisure time (of which is currently being jeopardized by one of said deities) – is the most reasonable course of action on his eyes. He doesn’t mind staying out-of-date if it means he does not have to deal with unnecessary complications.

However—

“My routine is not boring.” Ghostwalker finds himself murmuring, brows furrowing just the slightest as his gaze returns to an amused-looking Illumina.

“Are we starting this conversation again?”

“My routine; it is not boring.”

“You poor, ignorant thing.” Illumina sighs at his insistence, pushing the strands of his pale hair away from his face. “Would you like to ask our brethren whether or not they agreed to such a statement? Last time all of us got together, I’m fairly certain I remember there being plenty of complaints regarding a week spent living your day-to-day life. When was the last time you deviated from your routine? The last time you spread your wings and got a taste of the leisure that comes with deciding your future in the moment? Not recently, I’m sure. You’ve been like this since you spawned.”

There’s a jeer to Illumina’s words, a accentuated lilt alongside the hint of anticipation lurking in his bright eyes.

Ah.

 Ghostwalker sighs softly, leveling Illumina with a tired look. The other deity is trying to get a raise out of Ghostwalker as he always does.

“What must I do to get you to leave me alone?” He asks genuinely, and Illumina’s expression twitches – eyebrows ticking, the skin under his eyes creasing with a scrunch – before it is eventually covered up with a different look Ghostwalker would describe as the off neutral.

“…Repay me. Work for me until you’ve paid off your debt, and I’ll consider us even, I suppose.” Illumina says in a tight voice, the other deity throwing his gaze around the area.

Chapter Text

Bh/mdk/kt encounter eachother in an infamous woods known for disappearing children. Bh has skateboard by the scruff, using the other demon as bait. Their arguing attracts mdk, who startles the two of them horribly. After mdk is identified, there’s a small question sess of intentions. A brief pause. Bh looks around them with a grim expression, grip adjusting on his gear.

Slenderman teleports behind skateboard. Katana draws his blade unperceptabily quickly and slashes at the tentacle like limbs while mdk pops off two of the ones closest to skateboard. The beast wobbles back as Skateboard swivels as he finally notices the creature behind him, owl-eyed, and screams. That scream gets cut off by banhammer slamming his hammer into slenderman’s head.
It stares back at him.

Banhammer pauses, arms tingling from the impact, pounding heart about to tear out of his chest.

“You... you know what?” He murmurs, preparing to make a business decision that doesn’t involve getting snatched up by a weird, white tentacle man. He tosses his gear to the side in a fluttering of particles and snatches up Skateboard who lets out a startled squawk, hauling rear.

“Change of plan, we’re making a tactical retreat, losers!”

Medkit barely dodges the charging demi-god and stumbles a bit, staring wide-eyed at where the other demon promptly disappears into the brush. Then, he turns his befuddled gaze to Katana who turns to look at him as well, equally perplexed.

They stare at eachother. Both glance back at the towering beast of a man who creaks and cracks with regenerating limbs.

Medkit’s already hopping on the toes of his feet by the time they mutually decide to take off, both breaking out into a sprint behind the loud, unmistakable trail of Banhammer tearing through the forest.

Chapter Text

Shouting. Bright white light. Rubbery hands all over his arms, gripping his skin.
Banhammer doesn’t know how he got here. He can’t remember. One moment he was in the worst pain he’d ever experienced in his life and the next he was surrounded by demons he didn’t know, people who couldn’t stop touching him.
Fear chokes him up. He’s scared. His throat hurts, and the snarls tearing their way out of his throat only further agitate it, the sound barely registering in his ears. All of his focus is on getting away from the hands grabbing his shoulders and legs, digging into his bruised and cut skin.

His snarling withers into a frantic, pained whimper when a hand grips his hair and slams his head onto the metal table, vision swimming wildly, pain erupting in the back of his head. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. What’s happening? He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t want this.
Out of instinct, he fights against the hold. It doesn’t help. His hair feels like its going to pull out its scalp.
A thought strikes him as the first needle gets readied.
Where’s Firebrand? They were together a moment ago, weren’t they? That’s right. Firebrand had been trying to teach him how to take out his wings. So why isn’t he here? Why the hell isn’t he here? The bastard promised to protect him whenever Momma couldn’t. He promised. So why—
Someone grabs his arm, their claws digging into skin, and Banhammer startles, blurry vision flitting around frantically as he bares his teeth in a way to hide the terror in his eyes, the fear threatening to consume him. But his flailing doesn’t help.
The first needle plunges into his arm, and Banhammer chokes on terrified wetness, writhing and thrashing and crying out desperately as the first vial-full of blood leaves his body.

Chapter Text

They’re in Medkit’s apartment, seeing as Banhammer is usually the one who has to go out of his way to meet with the other, and it’s been a somewhat… drab day. Sure, Medkit’s usually not very talkative, but today’s especially bad. He’s spent half the afternoon face-first in a bunch of papers Banhammer cannot, for the life of him, decipher the meaning of, and he finds himself beginning to regret the fact he took a couple hours off work just to sit on this stupidly small dining table and watch Medkit’s handwriting dissolve from barely legible to who the hell writes that bad—

“Meds?”

Medkit doesn’t look up, eye still firmly pinned on the papers, but he does hum in response, a tick of his brow telling Banhammer he’s not exactly keen on being interrupted.

Sighing through his nose, Banhammer reaches down and pinches Medkit’s chin between his pointer and index fingers, pulling the other demon’s face towards him and leaning down to press their lips together. It’s a quick little gesture, punctuated with a brief digging of fangs and a lave of his tongue over Medkit’s lip. When he pulls away, Medkit blinks up at him like he’s finally seeing him for the first time since Banhammer kicked down the door and first invited himself inside an hour ago.

Banhammer cups the side of Medkit’s jaw and raises an unimpressed brow. “Hey.”

“…Hello.” Medkit breaths out, his brows furrowing as he glances down at the papers on the table and then back up at Banhammer. After a moment of comtemplation, however, he stands up from his chair with a screech, and Banhammer grins victoriously at the fact he’s managed to get Medkit give up on his doctor homework or whatever the hell it is, tugging the smaller demon between his legs where he sits on the table and diving down to meet Medkit’s equally enthused kiss.

“Thought I was gonna go home without a little action today.” Banhammer huffs out against Medkit’s lips when they part, throwing his arms around the other demon’s shoulders and caging him in by crossing ankles behind his back. Medkit’s eye flashes as he’s tugged closer, but he doesn’t mention it.

“You were the one who barged in here unannounced. I am not exactly obligated to give you attention, Banhammer.” Medkit says flatly, one of his warm hands slipping under the hem of Banhammer’s tight, grey shortsleeve and rubbing circles on his hip. “You’re losing your integrity; sitting in a man’s house for a few kisses. Did you skip work as well, too?”

“What the— okay, shut up. If I don’t come to ‘ya, it’ll take months just to see ‘yer mug! I’m doin’ ‘ya a favor by coming here.”

“Mm. I see. Well then, thank you very much for thinking of me and disrupting my daily routine. You’re just the best, aren’t you?” Medkit near croons, his lips quirking up into little, teasing semicolons, and Banhammer hates the way his face lights up in flames at the mere words ‘thank you’, mouth opening and closing as he sputters for something to counter Medkit’s words.

He finds absolutely nothing, and Medkit’s staring a bit too hard at his ears now, gaze flickering between that and Banhammer’s face. He’s never been so grateful for his blindfold until now, because he’s pretty damn sure he’s glowing purple at this point.

Thump thump thump.

Well, screw him—

“Well?” Medkit says after a few moments, his head tilting inquisitively, an all too foreboding glint to his eye. Banhammer grimaces at the look, shoving the smaller demon back while at the same time, reaching behind himself and gripping the all too honest appendage flopping around behind him.

“’Yer imaginin’ things.”

Medkit raises a brow, utterly amused. “I don’t remember claiming anything that could warrant using my imagination. Come here. You’re supposed to be distracting me from my work, and you aren’t doing a very good job at it anymore.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling me not to distract ‘ya?”

“Do I look like I enjoy doing paperwork?”

“…No.”

“Then I rest my case.” Medkit drawls, his hands slipping up Banhammer’s bare sides as he leans into the hold around him and simply stays there, cheek pressed against Banhammer’s chest.

Banhammer lets him, brows furrowing in confusion as he throws his arms around Medkit’s shoulders again and the seconds turn into minutes. They… don’t usually do this. Most of the time, they stand in awkward silence for a couple minutes, start bickering the next few, and then end up tangling with eachother on some kind of surface before. After that, Medkit usually has some kind of life crisis and disappears for a couple days, or work issues separate them, and then the cycle continues.

“…Did you bring any food?” Medkit murmurs after a few minutes, hands fiddling with the end of Banhammer’s flicking tail, and Banhammer grunts in reply from where he had almost dozed off, chin resting on the top of Medkit’s head.

“Left some frozen meals in your fridge a couple days ago. We’ll cook that up.”

Medkit sighs hard through his nose as he puts some distance between himself and Banhammer, untangling the hands around his neck. “Alright.”

Swiping the tip of his nose, Banhammer leans back onto the table on his palms and watches with mild boredom as Medkit slides back into his chair. He wasn’t supposed to stay for so long. There’s leftovers in his fridge back home, and the plan had been to leave after soaking up a bit of Medkit’s attention, but now he’s gone and screwed himself over by saying he’d cook for the man. He doesn’t even like frozen meals that much.

Now that he’s upset at himself for no good reason, Banhammer hops off the table with a thump and goes to yank the frozen meals out the microwave. There’s a harsh divot between his brows as he does, slamming the fridge door and tossing the meals on the table with an, to be frank, unnecessary amount of aggression, and he can feel Medkit’s judging stare burning into the back of his head as he yanks off his blindfold and stuffs it in his jeans pocket.

Seriously though, why the hell is he making this man a meal?

A pout settles itself on Banhammer’s face, the slightest jut of his lower lip, at the thought, irritation radiating off of him in waves. The more he thinks about it, the more upset he gets. Should he just stop and go home? It’s not like Medkit’s begging him to stay. What’s stopping him from up and leaving—

A quiet, empty house.

The thought pops up in Banhammer’s mind suddenly, and he grimaces at the throb of discomfort in his chest. There’s this other thing that’s been going on with him. The idea of being at home alone; it bothers him more than it should nowadays. He’s gotten used to being alone for the past forty-six years. No one’s really had the time to hang out with him anyway when he was a small grub, and the deities aren’t exactly the best people to hang around even if they are the reason Banhammer’s who he is today.

Medkit’s just… easiest to be around. Yeah. Not too nosy, not too loud. The guy just wants someone to hug up on and get cozy with. There’s nothing more to it.

Banhammer sighs through his nose, watching the microwave meal spinning in Medkit’s sputtering, century-old microwave. His mind drifts so far off that when his phone buzzes in his back pocket, the suddenness of it is enough to startle him, and he fumbles with the device, frowning confusedly at the rare text message.

Firebrand

Everyone has decided on the date for the gathering. It will be a month from now. Do you wish to attend?

The phone jolts in his twitching grasp.

Banhammer bites down on his bottom lip, thumbing at the side of his phone. He forgot about the gathering. It’s been a while since one of those happened.

A swarm of unease unsettles his stomach, and it doesn’t go away as he gets the microwave meals on the table and silently plops down at the table in front of Medkit, who glances up at him and stares like he’s some weird, alien specimen.

“Stop starin’.” Banhammer mutters, mixing around his meal with an unnecessary amount of aggression, and Medkit’s expression shifts, his brows ticking down, but he stays quiet and eats his meal as well. The silence is gross, if he were being completely honest. Medkit’s usual silence isn’t helping, and the fact its so quiet begins to remind Banhammer so much of his own house that it irritates him even more. Every few bites, he has to lift his gaze and stare at the demon in front of him for a few seconds if not to quell the unease inside of him, and even though he doesn’t know why he does it, he keeps doing it anyway.

As always, he polishes off the rest of both his own and Medkit’s portion, and he dumps the dishes in the sink for someone else to clean while Medkit fiddles with his glass of water before procuring a box of cigarettes and his lighter. That’s Banhammer’s que to leave.

“’m outta here.” He murmurs, slinging the duffel bag holding his hammer and other things over his shoulder before the smell of smoke becomes unbearable, and Medkit hums from the kitchen, never one to see him off. The lack of acknowledgement makes him more upset than he should be.

Twisting at the waist to squint at Medkit, Banhammer fights with his boots as he hollers once more, “I’m leaving!”

No reply.

Medkit’s eye remains pinned on the papers before him. Banhammer has to summon a godly amount of willpower in order to stop himself from further making a ruckus, but its not enough to prevent him from scoffing loudly and slamming the door closed on his way out. 

Chapter Text

One of their many disagreements started with a habit.

Banhammer’s finds himself crowding Medkit into the couch of his livingroom after a long day of frustrating paperwork, clambering atop the smaller demon the moment he walks into the house and settles down. They don’t exactly talk – at least, not of anything important. Banhammer busies himself with burying the irritation he’s felt towards the recent shenanigans regarding his work-partnerships by gripping Medkit’s hand and digging his fangs into the plump flesh of his palms. Laving his tongue over the bruising area only to descend Medkit’s forearm and bite the flesh there as well.

Medkit lays limply on his couch as his skin is brusied and marred, apathetic face solid and firm when Banhammer glances up after a particularly harsh bite.

“Did you call me over simply to maul me?” Comes the question once Banhammer moves away from Medkit’s arm and buries his face into the smaller demon’s neck, lapping longingly at the thin, warm skin there. He feels the vibrations of Medkit’s voice under his tongue, noting the clipped tone to it.

“Work’s been giving me a lot of crap over nothin’. Let a guy wind down.” He murmurs in response, unable to suppress the flare of annoyance at the thought of work once more. Instead he tries to focus on how warm Medkit feels against him even through fabric, the warmth that must come from growing accustomed to colder climates. It’s like his own personal hot pack; Banhammer’s always ran a little colder than most to compensate for the literal volcano for land he lives on.

A hand grips a handful of his locs when he makes his way up to Medkit’s jaw and gnaws on the skin, tugging him away despite his disgruntled grumble. Medkit’s voice is – somewhat… peeved? Yeah, peeved – when he mutters, “Watch the neck at least.”

“What’s the difference between biting yer hand and yer neck? It’s the same thing.” Banhammer mumbles back, lapping at the skin of Medkit’s forearm and feeling the hand in his hair tighten in a way that might be a warning, but he doesn’t care enough to think into it.

“I’d prefer not to have a visible mark on my skin. Gloves can easily cover my hands; my jaw, however, isn’t the same story, so refrain from such precarious behavior. I’m getting tired of healing your bites so often.”

“Ho, that hurts my feelings. ‘Ya don’t want anything other people can see?”

Medkit stares down at him flatly, his brows ticking down and lips curling with displeasure at Banhammer’s linting tone. “No.”

Banhammer clicks his tongue, eyeing the expanse of skin along Medkit’s neck. “Shame. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He is not, by any means, going to take Medkit’s aversion to visible marks in mind, but he can at least pretend he will.

(banhammer likes biting. However, when he bites a little too much, Medkit finally voices his displeasure with the visible mark. Barely listening, Banhammer leans in again, crooning low in his throat before digging his teeth around Medkit’s jaw. Wrong thing to do. A harsh hand grips his horn and yanks his head away, and for a moment he stares at a seething Medkit, startled but anticipating. Medkit glowers back, his jaw set, gaze dangerously emotionless.

Banhammer cannot, by any means, help the sharp grin spreading across his face when his head is forcibly tipped back and Medkit’s fangs clamp down on the soft skin of his neck, wincing slightly at the bloom of pain.

The teeth break skin. Banhammer groans under his breath as the scent of iron fills the air, grasping Medkit’s ponytail and tugging the demon off.

“I could’ve killed you if I wanted to.” Medkit mutters sharply, laving his tongue over the wound, and Banhammer then realizes how close Medkit had been to biting down on his jugular vein, humming absently at the thought.

“I would’ve respawned eventually.”

“Like hell you would. Stop biting my jaw. I’m tired of healing it so often.”

Banhammer glances down at Medkit scruntinizing the bite, large fingers fiddling with the strands of his ponytail. “Could just… I dunno, not heal it. Who’s gonna care anyway?”

A thumb digs into the bite on his neck, and Banhammer’s hand flies to grab Medkit’s own, an pained, displeased noise leaving him. Medkit’s gaze bores into him, listless, and Banhammer feels a bit stupid because of that look when he hisses, “that hurt. Don’t press on the damn thing like that.”

“Don’t bite me above the shoulders then.”

“Why not?”

“Because other people can see it, Banhammer. I don’t enjoy flaunting your marks, and if you keep putting them in places others can see, they will put two and two together, and my reputation will plummet. So don’t bite me.”

(banhammer doesn’t take him seriously, snapping that if he wants to bite somewhere he’ll bite the damn place, and Medkit’s nose flares, jaw going tense, and his hand tightens around the base of Banhammer’s neck.  They’re both selfish. Selfish and stubborn. Medkit once again presses that he doesn’t want visible marks, and Banhammer sneers in disbelief, saying how he’s a hypocrite and bringing up the hand bruises always on his neck. If that’s the case, stop bruisin’ my damn neck then. Medkit sucks in a sharp breath, incredulous, ‘oh, so now you have a problem too? Why don’t I just stop choking you then? A pity, since you seem to enjoy it thoroughly, but if that is the deal you wish to make, then I don’t have any better solution!” “I didn’t say you had to stop. Just listen to me for a second!” ‘I’ll listen to you when you start listening to me. I’ve repeated when I prefer for the past few days, and yet you keep ignoring my requests and doing as you please. Tell me, who is the only with a listening problem? Or are tyrants exempt from listening to the woes of the lowly common folk?” Banhammer goes quiet then, his hand twitching where it gripped Medkit’s. ‘’yer full of crap.’ ‘I’ve heard that before. However, am I wrong?’ Banhammer stays resolutely silent, rolling his jaw. Medkit clicks his tongue, unimpressed, ‘that’s what I thought.’ ‘…atleast heal my neck.’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Meds, it stings. You bit me like you were trynna tear a chunk out.’ ‘Will you stop biting me above the shoulder?’ ‘…’ ‘I’m leaving.’ ‘What-- bastard!’ Medkit steps away, fixing his suit and cuffs with a look of detachment as Banhammer scrambles up. He’s… he’s actually leaving? ‘Where are you going?’ Banhammer blurts out in a frantic voice, a coldness consuming his veins when Medkit’s listless, low-lidded gaze slides over to him. “Hey, we aren’t done here! Don’t just up and leave!” “I believe I’ve had enough of your uncoopertation. I have no obligation to stay here.”

“That—” Banhammer finds himself at a loss for words, frozen in place. He didn’t think Medkit would actually leave. Are the bitemarks really that bothersome? Why the hell didn’t he say so— An ice-cold dagger of clarity strikes Banhammer’s ego, ugly and jagged. Medkit has told him. Many times, actually. The thought of Medkit leaving has a spike of panic tearing through Banhammer, but the thought of admitting he was wrong and agreeing to Medkit’s requests puts a stupidly bitter taste in his mouth. The words refuse to come out. Banhammer’s mouth opens and closes multiple times as Medkit scoops up his briefcase and levels him with one last look. As if to give him one last chance.

The words don’t come.

“Medkit, no, wait—” Banhammer stresses frantically, hand flying out to grab the other demon’s shoulder in a far too tight hold. He can’t say he’s too surprised when Medkit whips around at the hold, eye wide and startled, before his face hardens with the look of a demon ready to claw his way out of a situation, and a hand shoots out to squeeze Banhammer’s neck in a near death-grip.

Banhammer should really stop giving this guy all his weakpoints.

A strangled, withering noise leaves him as his grip on Medkit loosens but refuses to fully slip off. Medkit’s tight expression wavers at the sound, but his grip remains resolutely tight.

“Let go of me.”

The embarrassing words don’t leave me stay stuck in Banhammer’s throat. He’s somewhat glad about that, but that means he has no other way to communicate his plea besides holding onto Medkit harder, his claws pricking into the suit fabric.

The hand around his throat tightens in response.

Banhammer’s face scrunches up as his chest begins to burn and his stuttering inhales cut off completely. A mantra of get away rings in his head from the sane side of his mind. He stumbles back a step. His fuzzy mind barely comprehends the threat glinting in Medkit’s gaze, nevertheless the fact he should be letting go and descalating like a responsible adult.

But he can’t.

Closing his free, trembling hand around Medkit’s forearm, Banhammer yanks the smaller demon into his arms and digs his claws into the tense back. The hand around his neck falls away out of surprise, and Banhammer’s legs threaten to buckle at the first desperate inhale of air into his lungs, his back hitting the wall. Even then, he clings to Medkit, gasping and coughing and whimpering into his hair as if he’d die the moment Medkit slips away from his arms.

Medkit remains stiff in his arms, his hands propped by Banhammer’s side against the wall in a pathetic attempt to prevent the fall if Banhammer’s knees do decide to buckle, squirming a bit only to pause when Banhammer tightens his hold. 

The moment he comes to himself, air in his lungs, arms full of Medkit, and an uncomfortable stake in his chest, Banhammer freezes.

“Sorry, I—” Why the hell is he apologizing? “—I… I didn’t mean to do that. Deities above—” Why the hell did he do that?

Why did he care? No, more importantly, why did he show he cared?

Something in him cracks and splinters when Medkit eases away, leaving Banhammer’s arms empty and his burning humiliation to settle in deep.

“…Think about what I’ve said. I’ll take my leave” Medkit settles on, a bit awkwardly, unable to keep the conflicted look out of his gaze.

Banhammer doesn’t stop him. He watches hollowly as Medkit gathers his stuff and walks out the front door with one last glance. There was something in his gaze then. Something burdened? Frustrated? Either way, it burned into Banhammer like a brand.

The door clicks shut.

Banhammer shoves down the urge to drop to the floor and let the tears heating his eyes fall, wiping at his face with careless aggression. It’s stupid. He said he wouldn’t get attached. So now why is he regretting his words? Why is it now that he wishes he went about everything differently if it meant Medkit wouldn’t have left? It’s not like he started this cursed… whatever the hell they have going on. Medkit shouldn’t get to tell him what to do and what not to.

A small inkling in his mind tells him he’s being selfishly stubborn. That he’s only caring about his side of the story and that if he wants to get rid of the stilted atmosphere around him and Medkit, he needs to swallow his pride and actually try to to work things out. Banhammer doesn’t want to acknowledge it. The situation between the two of them; it was never serious anyway, was it? Its not like they’re in a… relationship.

Banhammer remembers one important aspect of his life when Medkit leaves for a week. He’s alone.

They don’t talk about it the next time they see eachother. Nor the next time after that when Medkit shoves him down on the couch once they’re in his rickety apartment and kisses him. Banhammer still digs his fangs into Medkit’s jaw, though the action only makes bitterness sit in his chest. In retaliation, Medkit’s fingers seem to squeeze harder than usual around his throat, and Banhammer keeps his mouth shut about it until actual tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and the sloppy kiss they share only serves to sharpen the ache in his chest.

It gets to the point where he can’t even match Medkit’s languid movements, head lolling, tongue limp in his mouth, and its then that Medkit pauses with a sharp inhale, immediately releasing his grip.

“Were you trying to die?” Medkit asks in an incredulous tone, thumb rubbing careful circles on Banhammer’s sore throat as he splutters and coughs.

“Were ‘ya—were ‘ya tryna kill me?” Banhammer snaps back the moment he returns from the border of hell from all that coughing, wiping the spittle off his chin. The thumb on his neck pauses before a hardy expression overcomes Medkit.

“You should’ve told me. I’m not trying to murder the warden of Banland.”

Knowing the action will only server to irritate Medkit further, Banhammer merely makes a face while brushing his knuckles against the mark on Medkit’s jaw, watching the tick in the other demon’s only visible brow and the annoyance flashing across his face.

It’s petty; the game of back and forth they’re playing right now.

*Medkit starts closing off from banhammer, shrugging him off when he visits, never staying long during jobs. He’s jumpy whenever Banhammer stays longer than 10 minutes, always rushing him out or putting a wall between them. All because of a mark? Banhammer fumes everytime he thinks about it, and he isn’t even sure how to broach the topic, so they both stew in the tension like boiled chicken. Eventually Banhammer gets frustrated after a long day of work and Medkit pushes him away when he goes in for something I dunno, and he finally snaps. Medkit shuts down on banhammer as he’s yelled at, blah blah blah the two of them not being able to communicate like proper adults. The argument ends with them telling eachother they never wanted to be intangled with one another anyway, which is obviously untrue, and Banhammer’s ego gets shattered when Medkit agrees, causing him to yell an expletive at the other demon and stomp off, properly breaking the door from where he slams it too hard.  

*Life continues, of course. Banhammer has to get used to the feeling of being thrown away like his actions meant nothing, a fury brewing underneath his skin everytime he thinks about it. He’s harsh and feisty when talking to his employees. Golf has never been as addicting as it had before. Time skipp a week and a half and Banhammer finally gets onto his mom on the phone. They talk for ten minutes before Windforce asks, rather carefully, if something’s botherin him. ‘It’s stupid.’ ‘When isn’t any of your problems stupid. What’s bugging you?” Banhammer mutters about his situation with medkit, his voice growing more agitated the longer he talks, irritation dripping off his voice, and when he finishes his tirade, windforce coughs awkwardly and hums. After a bit of thought, she tells him to go apologize even if its not completely his fault. When Banhammer grumbles and says no to the idea, Windforce snaps at him to do it because she told him so, hammering the idea into his head. Banhammer doesn’t agree, but he gets off the call with way too much on his mind and sighs harshly through his nose, tossing his phone on the bedside dresser and pressing his face into a pillow.

*it takes an embarrassingly long time for banhammer to get over himself and lug himself to medkit’s complex. The reason is because the other healers he tried going to lack Medkit’s punctuality, and they’re always a little too friendly, prying into banlands warden’s life. Its then that Banhammer realized how little Medkit asked about his life and visa versa. They weren’t on speaking terms like that. Everything they had, it was purely physical, wasn’t it? And now Banhammer’s here, standing in front of Medkit’s apartment door, running his speech around and around in his mind as he shifts nervously on his feet. The door’s new. New and lockable, apparently, because when Banhammer goes to turn the knob, it doesn’t open.

When Medkit opens the door, Banhammer gets hit with a wave of something... soppy. Damp and wet.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I can come over whenever the hell I want. Move over. I got something to tell ‘ya.”

“Banhammer, now is not the time. I don’t remember wanting to see you here again.”

“I don’t care, okay? Just let me get this over with and then we’ll figure it out from there.” Banhammer shoves medkit aside and strides inside. He wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Banhammer.”

“Listen Meds, I just—well—”

“—Banhammer.” Medkit seethes, “You need to leave. I told you to stay away. Can’t you listen for once in your life?”

“At least let me get this out! I—I just thought about it for a bit and—”

A bang rings through the house.

Banhammer’s confused gaze shifts from a frozen Medkit to the hole in his side.

“Really shouldn’t make a habit of visitin’ a criminal’s house without armor, Banny. Heyo!” Comes that oh so familiar voice, rough and teasing and all the things Banhammer’s frustrations are created from.

“...Did you just hit my spleen?” Is the first thing Banhammer mutters as his fingers come away from his side painted purple, staring down at the blood steadily leaking from him with an irritated tick to his brows. Wiping it off, he glances up at Medkit who stands stock-still in front of him. His hands are clenched into balls by his sides, and his face is tight with frustration, gaze never lifting to meet Banhammer’s.

“Heh, of course not. Ain’t trynna kill our esteemed warden. I just grazed ‘im! I think. I’ll have ‘Kit here check ‘ya later.” Scythe saunters closer, shouldering her rifle, free hand in her pocket, and Banhammer glowers down at her when she stands right in front of him. He would’ve jumped her had it not been for the nausea welling up inside of him. His side hurts everytime he breathes, and is he even getting enough oxygen in his lungs? Curse it all.

“I don’t remember botherin’ you these last few days.” Banhammer gets out through gritted teeth, and Scythe hums thoughtlessly, dragging a finger down his chest. The hand is gripped in an instant, and Banhammer would’ve crushed it in his grip had a barrel not been pressed against his back.

“Let her go.” Comes Medkit’s voice, low and neutral. Not at all the words he wants to hear.

Chapter Text

The call comes in around five in the evening.

The monotone buzz of his phone’s ringtone wakes Medkit from what would’ve been his fulfilling evening nap, ordinary and familiar and all too promising of off field work. He’s come to expect it nowadays; the only reason people call him is for his medical prowess. Nothing more, nothing less. He never knew why, but something about that irritates him more than it should.

The blanket over him feels all too warm when he pushes himself up in his bed, the pillow calling his name as he tosses his legs over the side and groggily fumbles for the phone on the bedside dresser. He’s used to this as well, never getting more than two or three hours of sleep every day.

Just because he’s used to it doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate it.

His phone vibrates in his hand, taunting him the longer it takes to correctly press the answer button, and Medkit wipes the sleep away from his eyes while bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

Silence. No, there’s breathing on the other side of the phone. Labored breathing.

“Hello?” He tries again, pushing himself off his bed in order to find his suitcase and put it in order. This isn’t unusual either – the caller unable to speak due to pain or the sort – and Medkit knows he should be used to it – he knows he should be patient and encourage whoever interrupted his evening nap with a calm voice and gentle tone.

He doesn’t. The annoyance and irritation and frustration that’s been simmering under his skin for who knows how long stops him from being a proper doctor – the perfect healer – and he lets the silence between them fester, hands slowing where they put together his briefcase the longer the caller doesn’t speak.

What a waste of time.

Shut up.

“Is there anyone there?” Medkit asks, thumb hovering over the end call button. It’s been about two minutes since the call started. He usually waits until seven minutes before hanging up.

Just as he goes to end the call and dive back into his bed for what he knows will now be restless sleep – hours of drifting in and out of the realm of concious but never quite falling into that comforting deep slumber – a shaky, familiarly low voice answers him.

“…Hey, Meds.”

Medkit stares down at his phone. He moves his thumb away, confusion scrunching up his face.

“Banhammer?”

“Yeah.” The voice – Banhammer – says, his voice weak and withering like he’s knocking on Death’s door.

Medkit’s hands begin to move again, putting together the briefcase faster than before. Banhammer calling him isn’t out of the ordinary, isn’t it? For the years they’ve been acquantices, Banhammer calls him for any sort of injury, and they manage to stay on decent terms on a professional level.

Though his irritation at being woken doesn’t dissipate, Medkit manages to smooth the furrow between his brows. This, he can manage. Well, to some degree. “What happened? Where do you need me?”

The silence draws on. This time, Medkit doesn’t slow down the packing of his briefcase, closing it click with a shut and snagging his car keys and wallet off the dresser.

“…I… uh…”

“Hm?”

“It’s—‘m at the prison. Room… I can’t remember what room…”

“Can you try and remember?”

This feels like déjà vu somewhat.

Medkit waits patiently for an answer, striding through his apartment with everything he needs in hand. But then a thought stikes him, and he pauses. SFOTH above, he forgot to ask about Banhammer’s symptoms.

“Banhammer? Banhammer, I need you to answer a question for me. Hello?”

A small, frustrated groan comes through; Medkit takes it as answer enough.

“What happened? Are you sick?”

“…agh—no. I… I think—”

“Are you bleeding?” Medkit presses much too quickly, but his mind doesn’t have the time to berate him for his hastiness because he’s already backtracking to his blood cooler. He doesn’t think twice about choosing the type – Banhammer sent one of the most detailed medical information and records he’s seen up to date. He’s a surprising thorough demon for someone with such a sporadic personality, and Medkit will be lying if he says he hadn’t been at least a touch impressed by something as simple as in-depth medical information.

“Let me finish my damn—” A sharp inhale, and then a strained, withering noise sounds from his phone.

Chapter Text

The first time Medkit met him was a coincidence.

A groan had caught his attention, and Medkit glanced sideways at the alleyway adjacent to the street he walked upon, stride slowing.

A man slumped against the brick wall, clutching his upper arm to his heaving chest while bright purple blood slipped down his forehead.

“Those bastards--!” The man had hissed with a surprising amount of venom, his head snapping back hard enough to clip against the wall. “I’m gonna get those bastards... just you wait! Just you... damnit!!”

Furious, purple eyes paused and snapped his way, and Medkit tensed, lips pursing as those eyes flashed in the darkness surrounding them.

Pulling his bag closer to himself, Medkit offered a light bow of his head and turned on his heel, walking a bit faster than usual to get to his dorm.

The second time... well—

Medkit twirls the pen between his fingers absently, staring down at the papers piled in front of him as the sound of his professor’s droning voice echoed through the lecture hall.

The door to the hall creaks open. Almost every gaze lifts to get a look at whoever bothered to walk into the – to be frank – abysmally boring lecture, and naturally, Medkit’s own does as well.

Purple skinned-figure dressed in a tight, grey shortsleeve and dark jeans. A handful of bandages covering a deadpan face. Sprawling, fluffy locs accented with golden rings.

Purple eyes that seem to shine a bit in the bright, lecture hall lighting.

The man pauses, those sharp eyes boring into him, and Medkit grimaces, sinking a little into his chair. Besides him, Sword glances between the both of them. Questions shine in his eyes, but – thankfully enough – he keeps those questions to himself

Chapter Text

The world clips out.

All of a sudden Banhammer’s getting the air blown out of his lungs because of an unrelenting hand pushing against his chest. He strains against the hold, fingers squeezing hard around the handle of his hammer, as that owl-like mask stares at him from inches away.

“Banhammer!” Firebrand yells as if he isn’t the one allowing a vampire to work alongside demons. As if he isn’t allowing a stain to taint the name of this organization – organization that brazenly proclaims in their slogan to protect the world from vampiric forces.

Banhammer doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to understand. All he knows is he isn’t letting a bloodsucker join his squad to act like it belongs.

“Let go of me!” Banhammer snarls, free hand coming up to dig sharpened claws into a scorching hot forearm. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting this piss stain walk in here scotch-free!”

That vampire stares down at him, hand resting over the handle of its sheathed sword. Unfeeling. Unmoving. Unaffected.

Utterly infuriating.

“You wanna join our squad? Huh? Well, lets see what happens when I take this hammer to ‘yer damn skull.” Banhammer thunders, low voice echoing through the conference room, nostrils flaring with steam as he strains forward. That masked face shifts up and to the side in response, the only response granted. “We don’t need no bloodsucker who cant hold his own in a fight against me. Whadd’ya say? Hang around long enough for me to take this here hammer and spray your damn guts across the wall—”

The hand on his chest tears him away from the vampire with ease Banhammer can never get used to, reminding him that for once, he isn’t the strongest person in the room. The mere idea makes his fury flare even worse, and Banhammer’s burning gaze snaps to Firebrand, face twisting up into a snarl.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing with these passion projects, huh? Every time I so much as blink, a new bloodsucker’s walkin’ into our place like they own the damn thing, and you’re just letting it happen! This isn’t—we don’t need these pieces of—”

“I said it once and I will say it again; Banhammer, times are changing.” Firebrand immediately cuts him off, voice thundering even louder, grasp on Banhammer’s shoulder. Banhammer’s jaw clicks shut; he glowers furiously at the person he had looked up to.

“Vampires were people once.”

Banhammer would’ve laughed had it not been for the serious expression on Firebrand’s face, which makes his all that more aggravating. “Heh? So we’re using this argument now? Geez, why don’t we go and say murderers were people once as well! What about it? We let some killers give us a good sob story and set ‘em free – see what happens!”

“That is not the same thing. Being a vampire does not equate to being a murderer, Banhammer.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about them. Ask this one right here, why don’t you?” Banhammer irately jabs a thumb in the bloodsucker’s direction. “Ask him if he’s killed someone. Go on. Since being a vampire doesn’t mean you’re a murderer, I’m sure we’ll find plenty of deity-forsaken vampires out there in the streets with a clean track record.”

Silence reigns.

Firebrand stares down at Banhammer, jaw clenched, grip tightening on Banhammer’s shoulder. Just as he thought, this one isn’t no clean slate either--

“Have you killed someone?”

The attention veers to the vampire swathed in crimson. The low timbre neutral. Mask-covered head tilting the slightest.

Banhammer turns to it. Processes the question for a moment before the true insinuation behind those words click. Just the thought of a bloodsucker trying to turn the question on him, who does it think it is?

He snarls low and dark, fingers clenching around thin air as the urge to take his hammer and smash it into the vampire’s head in wells up inside of him. “Butt in one more time, and I’ll show you your answer in a second.”

Immediately, a hand on his shirt tugs him away. “That’s enough.”

“It’s the one askin’ for it, smartin’ off like that! More—”

But before he can even adjust the grip on his hammer, a hand scruffs him by the collar of his uniform and drags him further and further away from that bloodsucker who’s grasp falters on its sword. Banhammer snarls furiously as Firebrand sends a weary look to the rest of the conference, a vein popping in the older deity’s forehead as he says, “we’ll be taking a quick break. Please excuse us.”

“Let me go, you bastard! Argh!”

The door closes after Banhammer’s struggling figure with a resounding bang, a smokiness to the air as the heated atmosphere cools a little.  

Finally able to relax in his seat, Hyperlaser finds himself sighing – whether from relief or exasperation is yet to be known – and rubs a hand over the back of his nape, attention flicking down to the syllabus papers before him.

“Well... somebody’s in trouble.” Rocket mutters the obvious, loosening the top button of his uniform from where he’s beginning to sweat. “We should, like, write a petition for them to not argue in front of us. I feel like I’m watching the beginnings of a disownment case.”

Sword raises a brow at him. “Disownment.”

“Yeah.” Rocket flashs his fangs, a flat smile with no humor. “Disownment. Those two make me feel like I have two loving parental figures and healthy relationships with my non existent siblings. You’d think Banhammer would have a little more respect for his old man with how much crap he gets away with.”

“Must not run in the family. Sometimes I question if they’re really related.” Sword mutters, propping his chin with his palm, and he twirls a pen in his other hand. A few moments of silence pass before he glances up at the vampire still standing beside Firebrand’s seat.

“Well.” He announces, standing from his seat and rounding the table until he stands before their new addition to the squad, reaching out a hand. The owl-like mask tilts down at the gesture, and a brief moment of hesitation passes before the vampire moves the hand that isn’t resting on the sword handle and firmly clasps his and Sword’s hands together.

“Welcome to Squad Zero. I did tell you we specialized in especially warm welcomes, didn’t I?” Sword grins sheepishly. Katana seems to recall for a moment, nodding in agreement.

“You did.” He confirms simply, letting go of Sword’s hand.

“Yeah, I apologize about the captain. He’s... uh... a little bit...?”

“Racist.” Hyperlaser mutters loud enough for the room to hear, and Sword grimaces, unable to refute that statement, while Rocket snorts.

“Well, that’s... hm.” Sword looks over at Katana who doesn’t seem too bothered. His expression clouds a bit, lips thinning briefly before he grimaces. “Yeah, actually, racist checks the boxes. Sorry, President Firebrand’s working on him.”

Katana’s mask shifts slightly. His voice sounds a little different from his usual, flat tone, almost concerned. “He is the captain?”

“Yup. That surprising? I thought it was pretty obvious since, ‘ya know, tall big dude with the flashy coat. Gets all the cookie points. Has an attitude like that and is still employed. I can go on, actually—”

“No, I think we got the point.” Sword cuts in, sending Rocket an exasperated look. Rocket flashs his canines in retort.

“Anyways, uh... you should be fine. The President has him on a pretty tight leash right now, so I doubt he’ll have the guts to actually spray your’s across the walls. If he does, then uh... well I can’t beat him up for you, but I’ll have your back.” Sword pats Katana’s shoulder with a heavy hand, grinning reassuringly.

“We’ll try to keep him in check.” Hyperlaser adds where he’s been removing the pens Biograft brings to it’s mouth. “It’s been a while since we got a new member. It wouldn’t do well to not look over you.”

Katana’s mask shifts as if looking over the room. The grasp on his sword handle loosens. “Thank you.”

The next thirty minutes or so is spent waiting in the conference room.

Rocket’s cackling at something Biograft says, slapping Sword beside him on the shoulder with his bioengineered arm and causing the demon to bemoan an expletive. That’s when the conference door clicks open.

Firebrand enters first, an exhausted smile sent to the room while he goes to sit the head of the table; a persistent pinch of his brows refuses to go away. His gloves are changed out, a gradiant of red and browns on his steaming forearms.

Banhammer enters next, this time adorning a simple grey shirt tucked into his uniform pants. An unmoving scowl has settled on his face. His forearm is bandaged and stained with purple, His eyes flash brightly when they land on Katana, but he keeps quiet and plops down with a heavy thud next to Hyperlaser.

Interesting.

The conference continues without so much as a hitch. Banhammer does not utter a word – though his expressions say everything in his stead.

Before Firebrand even finishes dismission, Banhammer’s kicking himself out of his chair with an unreasonable amount of racket, stomping his way out.

His hands are shaking. His chest hurts, and he swallows roughly around the ball of buried fury in his throat. His head hurts so much.

He isn’t even in the halls for more than a minute before a small nurse comes running up to him, quietly but firmly letting him know he has another scheduled blood withdrawal.

Dragging a shaking down his face, Banhammer inhales and exhales with a puff of steam. Clenches and unclenches his free hand.

He takes an unsteady step back. Puts distance that he’s sure he can’t close in a matter of milliseconds. The nurse follows.

“I’m not doing this today.”

“Sir, I’m afraid this appointment isn’t optional.”

The ringing grows louder.

More scattered steps back. The pointed click of the nurse’s shoes as she follows.

“I said I’m not going to the damn appointment. Go away.” Banhammer exhales shakily. He can barely think properly. Words, so many words, swirl in his mind. Firebrand’s. That bloodsucker’s.

He wants to go home.

*the nurse insists, saying something that hits too close to home

Banhammer’s hand moves before he can even think about it. He viciously frees himself from the nurse’s grasp and whips around so hard his headache surges.

“You deaf, huh? Hard of hearing?” He snarls, voice booming across the area as he crowds the nurse who’s face plummets into blatant fear in a heartbeat. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Pathetic. Now get your damn mug outta my face before something happens, or gods so help me, I’ll smack the living hell out of you—”

The infuriating silence of the main hall suddenly registers.

Banhammer pauses, gaze darting around behind his blindfold to see the pale, apprehensive faces of the demons around them. They stand there and watch like this is some kind of show. Balking and dropping their jaws and acting like they’re watching through a screen.

He hates it. He hates it, he hates it, hehatesithehatesit—

It’s almost like he’s outside his own body, watching himself from the recesses of his mind. He lashes out at the people, a snarl twisting up his face Just as he gets overwhelmed, stumbling to the exit and getting shrieked at by the now-ballsy passerbyer, banhammer cracks.

He reaches out with the intent to grab and yank. Preferably bash as well.

Instead, his wrist gets near crushed, and a crimson blur snags his arm in a lock behind his back, hastily shoving him out into reddening skies and bustling square. Bangammer’s gasping for air, using up the meager amont of oxygen his does have for vicious snarls of protest, when he’s shoved breathless into a brick pillar.

He’s trapped. And aside for the startled rush of adrenaline, something else wells up inside of him. He doesn’t acknowledge it, tearing himself away from the grip.

*katana subdues him until Banhammer jabs a foot into his knee. They stumble apart. Firebrand appears, looking hauntingly disappointed, and he grabs Banhammer by the forearm and yanks him back inside,

Banhammer stumbles after his uncle, jaw working furiously, steam coming out in billowing puffs from his nostrils.

“I thought I told you specifically to head to the medbay after our conference.” Firebrand’s voice is a daunting, harsh sound to Banhammer’s ringing ears. “Instead I find you starting a fight in the middle of the entrance hall.”

“They were the ones who started pissin’ me off—"

“It doesn’t matter who started what.”

Banhammer shuts his jaw with a click.

“Regardless of what happens, I expect you to control yourself and act in a manner that honors your position.

“Behave yourself and do not cause anymore touble for the staff. Not everyone has the time to deal with your antics, Banhammer. Go.”

Firebrand drops banhammer off at the medbay room with the nurse. The blood drawing goes by quietly. Purple blood.

Banhammer leaves the room and turns the corner to find the side profile of a owl-like mask. Crimson. An overbearingly large hat.

Katana gives him his bag.

Banhammer snatches it,

*banham drags himself home, standing in the empty house before snapping and slamming his bag to the ground.

Banhammer stares listlessly into the office room.

To the righthand side of his desk sits a devil’s spawn, typing away at a  computer with the slowness of a eighty year old demon. Its slow, heavy typing rings in the otherwise quiet room and, consequently, into Banhammer’s own ringing ears.

Fury, hot and sudden, chokes him up.

The heavy footfall of his stomping causes Rocket who had been sitting at the opposite side of desks, gaze pointedly directed at his papers, to tense. The younger demon glances backjust in time to see Banhammer yank that bloodsucker’s chair back in one vicious motion.

The vampire startles and hastily grips the sides of the chair, owl-like mask snapping to stare up at Banhammer like he’s the problem. The audacity--

“Who the hell said you could sit here?” Banhammer immediately hisses, jerking the chair back again and subsequently jostling the bloodsucker. “Move it, piss stain!”

That stupid mask stares at him, making no move to preferably get up and walk out the building. Actually, it goes as far as to tilt its head up and at an angle, the same look it bestowed him yesterday.

Banhammer chews the inside of his cheek at the display. Narrows his eyes. Grips the back of the chair harder and yanks it across the room.

Just as he nearly manages to get that both the chair and its occupant out the door and shoved into the hallway, he jolts to a stop and whips around to see it gripping the threshold of the door. He yanks it again. It stumbles up and out of the chair, slow to right itself.

This is what Firebrand wants in Squad Zero? This sad excuse for a pile of ashes?

Banhammer stares incredulously as it turns on its heel and looks at him, that mask tilting towards the chair before moving back towards him.

“What? You just gonna stand there and look stupid?” Banhammer lets out a puff of steam, throwing the chair to the ground with a thud and stalking up to the bloodsucker. He jabs a finger roughly into its chest and gets up in its face, using all the inches he has on the bastard to tower over it.

“If you think I’m just gonna sit still and let you walk all over this organization, think again. Here? We kill the likes of you. Hordes of ‘em. If you think ‘yer safe just ‘cause you got a little backing, you might want to fix that because I’ll shove a stake down your throat any time of the day.”

The sound of the air conditioning reigns for a few moments.

Rocket clasps his hands behind his head and hunches over his desk, not at all interested in getting involved.

Banhammer looks over the bloodsucker before him, takes in the tense posture and unwavering focus.

Then, it tilts its head, sharp gaze glinting inside the slits of its mask. It’s voice is a low, smooth timbre when it replies—

“I’ll keep your challenge in mind.”

After weeks of slaving away, banhammer gets a surprise in the form of his mother, windforce. She appears in the middle of the night, a strong gust of wind flowing through the house to announce her presence, and Banhammer jolts from where he’s slumped over papers on the dining table, bowls of dinner cold and forgotten beside them.

“...Momma.” He breaths out, eyes slowly widening. His mother, still clad in her battle-worn armor, helmet still set over her face, stares at him for a moment, still. Then, the tense lines of her shoulders relax a bit, and she walks over and wraps Banhammer in a warm, horribly comforting embrace.

Banhammer finds himself enroute as usual, scoping out a moonlight-illuminated street alongside Betagraft who has been suspiciously docile. He squints at it as they saunter their way across a rooftop.  

And then, after an hour or so of being obedient, Betagraft whirls to the side and takes off, leaping into an alleyway. Banhammer, unable to muster the will to chase after it, is left sniffling away the snot in his nose and staring blanking at where his teammate had just been. Great.

*Banhammer wanders around for a bit, straying off route a little to get some late-night skewers from a street vender, and hes fumbling with his wallet, a beef skewer caught between his teeth, when something entirely metallic slaps him on the shoulder – his recently dislocated shoulder, Banhammer remembers with a deep cry of pathetic agony.

Breath catching in his throat, Banhammer’s gaze flits down to the floor. His beef skewer stares back up at him. Diabolical.

When he whips around, lips twisting into a snarl, nostrils flaring, the only thing on his mind is absolutely pummeling whoever has the sheer nerve to disrupt his skewer eating, and then Banhammer’s gaze lands on Rocket who blinks up at him with the most terrified expression he’s ever witnessed, and all of a sudden the pummeling part sounds so much more doable.

“AH- wait, wait, big guy, come on, I’ll buy you another skewer! Actually, one isn’t enough! Five skewers! Five skewers if you put me down!!” Rocket immediately babbles as Banhammer yanks him up by his uniform collar, kicking and wriggling against the hold, and Banhammer observes the effort with a harsh sneer, just barely resisting the urge to throw the little rat into the food stand beside them. Behind Rocket, Sword stands a little ways further from them, arms crossed, body tilted just enough for the average passerby to not put two and two together if they’re braindead enough to miss the matching uniforms, and he swipes at his nose and shrugs his shoulders out awkwardly as Banhammer gnashes out a nasty series of curses at Rocket and his stupid, scrunched face.

It’s when he’s gripping Rocket’s frizzy, perpetually crunchy hair and wringing the punk’s head around in circles that Banhammer pauses at something. Something... teal.

Just across the street, a figure in white and teal – also wearing a rather wide brim hat and a gun slung over their shoulder – leans against one of the building walls, and Banammer’s mood crashes through the floor – down into the bubbling pits of hell.

“I’m gonna mess you up so bad when I’m finished with that prick.” Banhammer seethes, gaze snapping to a frazzled Rocket for only a brief moment before he flings the smaller demon to the floor and snags his hammer off of his back strap, stomping towards the white and teal figure. The outline of a grin spreads across Scythe’s face from under the shadow of her hat, and, predictably, she straightens up and slips down an alley with a far too eased gait, a gait Banhammer wants to tear apart and burn into a pile of ash, hurrying after her.

Finding Scythe is an easy affair. Far too easily, his mind supplies, but an unrelenting vengeance encourages Banhammer’s careless pursuit, and it isn’t long before he finds that vampire sauntering through the narrow alleyway.

A door near her clicks with the telltale click of a lock while deathly silence overcomes them, her mere presence seeming to influence the area. Despite his former, ignored woes of how easily it was to find Scythe, this fact irritates him much more. Who is she to be so— so— influential?? If she can get people to cower and hide when she walks around like a bum with no job, then there should be people parading the hell outta the streets when Banhammer so much as breaths!

“Well, aren’t ‘ya one spiffy hound dog?” Scythe says the moment she turns around and faces Banhammer, the start of a somewhat exasperated grin stretching across her expression as he stomps her way. It’s as if she knew he would follow like a dog to a steak, and Banhammer’s face immediately sours at the thought.

“more scythe dialogue.”

For once, Banhammer doesn’t have anything to say for whatever comes out of Scythe’s mouth, brandishing his hammer with a resounding woosh and throwing it over his shoulder.

“No foreplay? And here ‘ya had me thinkin’ that conversation was ‘yer favorite part of the show.”

“I’m gonna slay ‘ya, bloodsucker.” He spits venomously, and then he twists at the waist and swings his hammer.

Banhammer throws his hammer up into the air, the weapon spinning higher and higher as he rushes towards Scythe. The vampire retreats without a second thought, following him step for step with frequent glances to the sky, and Banhammer clicks his tongue harshly, reaching for the inside of his coat.

With a flick of his wrist, Banhammer sends flashes of sliver zipping through the air, grimacing at his somewhat poor aim. However, Scythe blinks at him in surprise and seems to falter with ducking to the side, incredulity taking over her expression. That split second of hesitation costs her; Banhammer’s sucking in a sharp inhale of surprise when a dagger digs its claws into Scythe’s side, nearly stumbling over himself as he charges.

“Silver?” Scythe sneers with a cock of her brow though she hesitates to pull free the dagger, the lines of her face growing tight with discomfort as the metal burned her skin. “When the hell did’ja start using actual tools? Last I remember, the only things ‘ya dun carried was a stake and that hammer of ‘yers.”

“Anything’ll do if it means I get to burn you to a crisp.” Banhammer mutters, glancing up. His hammer glints in the moon-lit sky, spinning down towards him. He snatches it up, stumbling a bit from the recoil, and lunges towards Scythe who’s already readying her scythe.

The following, rather short exchange sends clanging sounds ringing through the area, and Banhammer grits his teeth through a stray bullet lodging itself into his shoulder, fighting to shrug it off. And, of course, Scythe doesn’t allow him a moment to adjust, taking the slight mishap to rush up to him and—

Startled, Banhammer swings his hammer using his good arm, putting what may have been a bit too much strength than reasonable into said swing.

A crack echoes through the alley as his hammer catches Scythe’s head and sends her tumbling off to the side.

Huh. Didn’t think that would’ve landed.

Banhammer blinks owlishly at Scythe’s staggering figure, and it’s disgusting the way her neck hangs off to the side as if the only thing holding it to her shoulders is skin.

Scythe’s upside-down expression burns into him, a furious scowl that Banhammer rarely gets to witness even on a good day, and he eats up the sight like a starved man, shaking off his surprise.

“Heh.. well, wasn’t that a clean hit? Maybe I should take ‘ya up on that offer and slap a stake on my hammer.” He drawls victoriously as he readjusts his grip on his hammer and stalks forward, wiping at the blood dripping down his forehead. Scythe’s scowl twists into an sneer at his words, her hands fumbling to bring her head upright with her spine—

Banhammer cracks his hammer down on her shoulder just before she can scurry away, grin shifting into something feral when she stumbles down onto her rear.

Is this it? Is he about to take down Inphinity’s most notorious serial killer right here and now all because he brought a couple silver daggers? A part of him is practically singing damn symphonies at the thought, ready to put an end to one of the problems in the world and snatch up all the praise and fame that comes with it.  

Far too excited by just how amazing he’ll be in mere seconds, Banhammer wipes at the toothy smile stretching across his face, and a noise – deities above, something damn near a stifled giggle – leaves him as he gets lost in his mind for a moment. And then he looks up.

Scythe looks at him under the rim of her disheveled hat, her head slightly crooked but upright, shoulders leaning on the edge of just barely mauled. Her eye glints devilishly, burning with condemnation.

What the hell?

And then, just as Banhammer barely manages to get over his bafflement at how she even reattached pure bone so quickly, Scythe’s rushes towards him with speed that she hadn’t possessed before, fury behind her movements.

It happens way too quickly.

One moment, Banhammer’s launching himself backwards and away from the demon spawn flying towards him, the next his forehead’s cracking against a wall, hard.

Trembling fangs press against his jugular. Banhammer sucks in an unsteady breath, elbow jerking back. Cold fingers wring around his wrist and yank his arm back, quick and harsh enough for his shoulder to pop out of the socket.

Banhammer digs his fangs into his lower lip, a pained groan leaving him as Scythe’s ragged breathing fans out across his skin.

“’Yer a lucky one, ‘ya know that?” She hisses. “Even from a pure source, demon ichor tastes like unwashed crack and could probably knock out a vampire with a single sip. Not only that, but ‘yer mommy would have my head on a stake in’na heartbeat if I dun dared dig my fangs into ‘ya. A miracle she hasn’t already.”

“Annoying. Irritating. All ‘yer qualities just had to go ‘n be the absolute worst. But one thing I can’t swipe off the shelf is the fact ‘yer the most interesting part of my day whenever I get ‘ta see ‘yer mug.

A scream awfully similar to the rasping quality of Rocket’s voice rings from behind them.

Banhammer freezes, sucking in a sharp breath at a loud, swift pop followed by a swishing sound.

A flash of heat blasts right next to his side. An ear-deafening explosion obliterates his eardrums and leaves them ringing. Somethings crumbling. The wall he’s pressed against is crumbling.

“Woahhhh, Rocket! I mean—that was a pretty nice shot, but who do you think you’re aiming at!? I thought we agreed no explosions around—”

“OHHH YEAH!” Comes that rambunctious, oh so familiar cackle as Banhammer coughs and splutters out all the dust. “Damn, I can’t see anything! Actually, you know what’ll fix that? Another round! Now where is it...”

Banhammer’s never swiveled around faster in his life. Adrenaline has him ignoring the ache... well, all over his body and fanning away the dust, frantically looking for his target.

She’s gone. Scythe. He lost her. Again.

Nostrils flaring with fury, Banhammer snaps around and stares incredulously at Rocket who fumbles a terrifyingly large piece of ammo into his launcher.

“Hold on, almost got it—”

“You blew me up.” Banhammer hisses, putting a halt to Rocket’s reloading. The shrimp pauses and glances up at him, those unnervingly sharp eyes scanning over Banhammer before seemingly writing off his current state of burnt-ness.

“Hell yeah, I did! Now, where’s that blood suckin vermin? I know it ain’t far!”

“That vermin ‘yer talking about has probably already scuttled halfway cross this damn city! Who the hell takes five years to reload a rocket launcher? And why the hell are you still allowed to use that thing in public areas!?”

“Damn, it’s gone already?” Rocket mutters with furrowed brows, glancing down both sides of the alley and not at all paying attention to Banhammer.

“Our target went that way.” A voice sighs from up above, and Banhammer damn near snaps his neck as he looks up, blinking at Sword who squats on the rooftop edge. The younger demon raises his brows and jabs a thumb towards a very empty alleyway. Great.

Welling up with the sheer amount of disbelief in his body, Banhammer looks back at Rocket.

“I...I almost had her.” He wheezes out, his voice cracking near the end.

“Special deliver for Mr. Meds!” Sword singsongs as he and Rocket haul Banhammer’s limping figure into the med bay.

Banhammer inhales his irritation, jaw jutting out. He grips their shoulders tighter when Rocket stumbles over what must’ve been thin air, “Shut the hell up.”

“—but then short stuff over here comes and blows the hell outta us! So now I’m here with no mass serial killer under my boot, and those higherup pricks in their fancy little offices are throwin’ a fit. Everythings just gone to complete—”

“Stay still.”

Banhammer pauses, giving the medic taping his relocated shoulder the stink eye. “

Banhammers ranting about the higherups and their pestering while Medkit tapes the shoulder he dislocated earlier that day, when Medkit suddenly stills. Banhammer doesn’t notice until the vampire is stumbling backward, hand flying out to steady himself. Frowning, Banhammer asks “’Yer blood level’s out of order again?” “...Unfortunately, yes. Could you hand me... that thermos on the counter.” Sighing, Banhammer stands up and brings the thermos, watching with narrowed eyes and a contemplative look as Medkit downs the blood inside and slams the thermos down with a strained curse, panting.  “The hell’s wrong with you now?” Medkit glowers at Banhammer before shoving the taller demon aside and packing his bag with shaking hands. “Ill send in my absence notice later. I’ll be clocking off for the day.” Banhammer questions him some more, and then notices the signs of bloodlust. A mildly concerned grin spreads across his face. “You trying to walk outta here looking like this? Some genius you are.” “...” Thinking Medkit wouldn’t actually bite him, Banhammer shoves his wrist in the vampire’s face, taunting him. “Why not take a sip from me before you go, huh? I’m sure ‘yer dyin’ for a taste right now.”

*Medkit stares up at him, shaking slightly. Banhammer raises a brow. The seconds tick by. Banhammer clicks his tongue and shoulders his way past Medkit with a muttered, “don’t call me if you get cut down in the middle of the street. I ain’t answeri—”

*All of a sudden, the world’s spinning and he’s shoved down against a wall. It hurts like fire at first, and then a trickle of aprosodiac slips in and Banhammer finds himself writhing away, terrified at the pleasure coursing through his veins. However, when he tries to move, a firm hand slams down on his throat and squeezes threateningly. He grips the wrist of that hand in a death hold, holding onto Medkit’s shoulders with his other hand and digging his claws in until they drew blood. He forgot how strong vampires were. This twig has way too much strength in him.

Medkit releases his neck with a hungry groan and laves his tongue over the wound, the hand that has Banhammer’s neck in a deathgrip loosening and instead caressing the skin as if to urge more sanguine out.  He repeats the motions. Again and again and again. And Banhammer lets him. He’s too lightheaded to do anything about it, and damn if it isn’t nausea camping out on the back of his throat. How much blood did he even lose? He really prefers not to die of blood loss in the medbay; a captain of a elite vampire extermination squad falling victim to the scrawniest vampire known to demonkind would positively kill his reputation.

Banhammer groans groggily in protest. Medkit pauses where his cold mouth sticks to Banhammer’s neck before he’s flinching away as if burned, and Banhammer barely makes out through low-lidded eyes as the vampire stumbles onto his rear and struggles to get back up.

“...Damn.” Banhammer finds himself murmuring, testing whatever small sliver of strength he has in his hands, the dread that had been pumping through his veins earlier seemingly sucked dry out of him. He just... really wants a nap. Maybe a painkiller too. His neck throbs steadily in an unfamiliar way, and Banhammer touches it as he drags himself into a sitting position, staring listlessly at the blood coating his fingers once he pulls away.

“Banhammer.”

The voice that calls him is quiet. Quieter than it should be. There’s an undertone of fear layered on so thickly that Banhammer swears he could’ve choked on it as well, and the tremble at the end echoes through the room. He isn’t used to hearing such fear from a vampire. It sits wrongly in his mind like something that shouldn’t even happen, because it shouldn’t. What kind of vampire is afraid of drinking from someone?

Banhammer’s gaze slides to Medkit, looks over the deathly stillness of his body and the frantic unsurety in his eye. He looks two seconds away from bolting out the room, and for some reason, the mental image is enough to get a weak huff out of Banhammer. It really shouldn’t be funny. He’s pretty sure he is about to fall dead on his face from blood loss, but hey, he’s still alive and kicking, so maybe there’s a couple more things he can waste his breath on before death snatches him up.

It's a bit of a startle when Medkit wavers where he stands. Not enough to get a full body flinch, but enough for Banhammer to pause and feel a brief spike in his heartrate. He licks his upper lip nervously, feels how dry it is, and grows conscious of how hard his breathing is, lungs never seeming to fill with enough oxygen.

“Banhammer.” Medkit repeats again, this time a bit louder, but no less seeped in dread. His eye sweeps Banhammer’s frame over and over like he cant make sense of what he’s seeing, what he’s done. What is he, scared? Nervous? He’s not the one with half his weight in blood sucked outta him. Banhammer feels a bit indignant sitting here, barely able to keep his body sat up nevertheless speak, and the painful pressure building throughout his body hurts like hellfire, the former numbness wearing off.

Medkit’s voice is hollow, laced with an edge of franticness, when he murmurs as if to himself, “...Why did you taunt me?”

The truth – the fact Banhammer put enough trust in a vampire to believe Medkit wouldn’t attack him no matter the circumstances – sits heavy and gross in his chest, and Banhammer cannot, for the life of him, bear to admit he placed any trust at all in the vampire across from him, so he presses his lips tight and attempts to drag himself to his feet.

 “I didn’t mean to do that...Why did you—why did you taunt me?” Medkit whispers again, and he sucks in a harsh breath before raking a hand through his hair and pacing the room, the first sign of restlessness he’s shown since he first froze. It’s a sign of emotion that Banhammer can tack down with ease, but he doesn’t need the vampire who mauled him pacing the room like a crazed lunatic. He needs a damn blood transfusion or something.

Gritting his teeth, Banhammer grips the nearby cot and pulls himself to his feet, hating the way the world instantly spins around him, and he throws a peeved glance at the pacing vampire. “Hey.”

Medkit doesn’t notice him; bastard continues pacing, actually. Which is not, in anyway, useful. Banhammer needs a hand and a half and this bloodsucker’s having a episode. His neck is pulsing hot with pain – his back hurts from where he had landed wrong after being pushed – and this guy is having an episode.

“Hey.” He tries again, voice rough and strained with fatigue as well as irritation, and finally, Medkit jolts to a stop, and his gaze – a bright red from the remanants of blood lust and animal-like in the fear consuming it – snaps to Banhammer as if finally noticing him for what feels like the second or third time in the past few minutes. Great. He can work with this.

“Give me a hand, would ‘ya?”

Medkit stares at him like he’s the abomination in the room, his hands wringing endlessly in front of him, and Banhammer nearly goes over and smacks the vampire himself when Medkit looks to the floor and murmurs something himself, straining to hold himself upright.

“Oi. Bloodsucker.” Banhammer hisses again while glancing around the room for something that could make this situation any better. Sure, he can waltz outside and take himself home, but he isn’t about to parade around with bite marks from a vampire on display. His uniform’s barely hanging onto his torso as of now, the collar entirely ripped apart, and just the thought of other people seeing what he let a vampire do to him leaves the bitterest taste in his mouth. It would be humiliating. He’s supposed to be the untouchable demi-god who happens to hunt vampires for fun. His skin should be absolutely flawless save for victorious battle scars, not marred by a medbay vampire’s fangs.

What will he even tell Momma? Gee, I messed around and found out, and now half of my blood is inside a vampire? She would probably laugh right in his face before giving the longest lecture known to demonkind! He ain’t dealing with all that! And besides, he... really doesn’t want to tell her. It’s embarrassing to even think about how she’ll react, even if he knows she would never disown him or make him quit as a hunter. Even if he knows she would sooner be concerned with ripping Medkit apart than ripping him apart. Even if... even if he knows that she technically deserves to know as his mother, and that he should be swallowing his pathetic ego and at least let her know.

He doesn’t want to. Yeah, no, he’s keeping this for atleast a couple centuries. It’ll be a fun story, yeah? Something to tell at the family reunions and by a fireplace. Hey, remember when I got that good ol hobby as a vampire hunter? Yeah, so apparently the vampire from med bay was this super powerful guy and barely managed to stick his fangs in me, but hey, I gave him a good clobbering in the end so it’s all good! Except he hasn’t executed the clobbering part. He should really hop on it soon, when he isn’t so dizzy and slow and cold—

Medkit’s eye snaps up to look at Banhammer. Banhammer damn near flinches, yanked out of his fantasies of how exactly he would clobber said vampire. Damn, he was getting to the good part too.

But there’s something in Medkit’s gaze that shifts as if he’s solidifying a plan. Like he’s coming to terms with his circumstances and about to deal with them accordingly. He seemingly steels himself, his expression firm with determination, and then he’s stalking towards Banhammer, far too quickly and far too foreboding.

“Just letting you know,” Banhammer slurs as the vampire gets closer, blinking away the fog from his eyes. “my blood type’s—”

And then he’s being grabbed by the bicep and dragged away from the one thing holding him upright, and Banhammer nearly pisses himself with how hard he stumbles, heartrate spiking like it’s trying to spike through his chest and kill him right there and then. His legs aren’t working. Is Medkit trying to walk him out of this place? Why the hell would he do that?? Is he trying to get burned on sight with the captain of Squad Zero looking halfway into the grave beside him???

“Work with me. We’re getting out of here.” Medkit snaps at Banhammer as if he’s the only one with a massive pile of problems awaiting him, letting go of his bicep and hurrying over to the cape draped over a chair.

Well damn.

When Medkit turns around, cape in hand, Banhammer’s practically frozen, breath stuck in his throat, legs shaking horribly with the urge to buckle and let him faceplant into the floor. His back hurts. He’s clenching so hard to stay upright his muscles feel like they’re going to cramp and kill him on the spot.

Medkit looks over him with the most judgemental look ever to exist on the face of any vampire, his brows furrowed in mild concern, hands holding the cape slowly dropping and letting the expensive piece of clothing drag against the dirty med bay floors.“...Are you...?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine.” Banhammer squeezes out in the most pathetic voice he’s heard in a while, and then his muscles are locking, a single, exasperated groan leaves him, and he’s falling forward.

Falling into strong, strapping arms, apparently.

Firm arms swoop and pull him upright, and Banhammer immediately digs his claws into Medkit’s shoulder, chest heaving, heartrate pumping as if on steroids. He slumps into the arms holding him, stubbornly ignoring the way Medkit freezes up as he does because the bastard brought all this upon himself, and closes his eyes for a brief moment, focusing his efforts on oxygen.

“...I’ll take it that you won’t be able to walk.”

Yeah, no shot, Sherlock, is Banhammer’s automatic, internal response, but he doesn’t have the energy to even speak right now, so he grunts.

A pause.

Banhammer doesn’t know what he should expect anymore, but being thrown over a vampire’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes is not one of those expectations.

“Don’t move.” Medkit tells him, his voice only a touch strained despite carrying 300+ pounds of pure muscle on one shoulder, as the cape gets draped over Banhammer’s back and head, and Banhammer’s pretty sure his head is about to scrape the floor with how close it is, but before he can even voice his complaints, nevertheless gag from the nausea hitting him full-force, the vampire carrying him starts moving, and suddenly he hears a window being forced open.  

The utter indignation, embarrassment, and fury that rises up in Banhammer could kill a regular demon. Damn near chokes him himself too, with how much his body is spluttering like an under-juiced piece of motor equipment. He shifts with the consideration of thrashing about and freeing himself, but the idea of falling off and then having to deal with having been seen getting carried by the doctor in med bay sounds, to be frank, absolutely disgusting. Besides, the hand barely managing to hold around half his waist tightens, so he can’t move much anyways.

Groaning under his breath, Banhammer drags his hands over his warm face. The sounds of shoes clicking and voices talking and doors opening and closing echo all around him, reminding him of just where exactly he is.

And then the air shifts, the sun is beaming down on his back, and suddenly Medkit’s running.

At one house in the large city of Inphinity, the window is being hijacked, and a vampire is easing his way inside with a large, demon-shaped lump on his shoulder.

Banhammer immediately slides off Medkit’s shoulder and onto the somewhat warm wooden floors that greet him, his arms trembling as they try to hold him up, slobber and... bodily fluids splattered

across his face. He lifts one hand with what shouldn’t be momentous effort and slowly wipes the mess off while Medkit clunks about around him.

It’s moments later that a wet cloth is pressing against his face, and Banhammer scrunches his face weakly as it drags all over his face, head lolling forward with fatigue.

“You should’ve told me you were going to throw up.” Medkit mutters stiffly somewhere in front of him, a hand pinching Banhammer’s chin and keeping his head upright. “I could’ve stopped.”

Banhammer has many words for that statement, namely the fact he can barely breath, nevertheless talk, but he keeps his mouth shut and settles on a withering groan. He feels disgusting. Winded. Exhausted. All of the above. Deities above he’s never felt so tired in his life.

The vampire says something else, but the meaning of the noise gets lost to the roar of Banhammer’s own rapidly thumping heart. The warm cloth leaves his face. The hold on his chin does as well. His arms tremble for only a moment more before Banhammer gracelessly lets himself slump onto the luke-warm floor and pull his arms around himself, shivering.

Everything else happens far too quickly.

After what must’ve been at least a few minutes, arms are wrapping around his waist, the only place they can get a proper hold, and heaving him up. Someone drags his shaking body through the house, and he’s being plopped down on a soft mattress with what feels like one or two paper-thin blankets. His cape is draped over his shoulders and clasped clumsily, and then the additional blankets flutter over his shoulders as well, and his body is guided to rest against a backrest.

He nearly dozes off then. He’s still cold, his body wont stop shaking, and he can barely breath, but he’s also tired as hell. Yeah, a nap sounds like a good idea. Maybe everything won’t hurt as much if he sleeps.

A hand shakes him by the shoulder. A voice is calling out to him. “...hammer.”

Banhammer groans softly in protest, burying further into the thin blankets around him in a effort to quell the cold, and absently, he notices that something’s sticking into his forearm. The shaking stops. A quiet curse echoes in whatever room they’re in. A few frantic footsteps echo as well, and then they pause and come closer.

Oh.

Hesitantly, someone kneels near where he sits and comes closer. warm arms wrap around him awkwardly and tug him onto his side, and a small, especially hot body presses against him. It feels nice against the frigidness of his own skin. Banhammer slowly curls around his source of heat, chin pressed against the other person’s temple, face tucked between the pillow and another head atop his own.

His eyes flutter once, twice, and Banhammer’s consciousness slips off into a dreamless rest.

The next time Banhammer comes to, he’s... warmer. Shaking less. A little light-headed. There are also arms around him.

There are arms around him.

Suddenly, all the memories from before come slamming back into him, and Banhammer’s pausing, owl-wide eyes snapping open to take in the grayish strands of hair tickling his face, the deathly stillness of whoever is pressed up against him.

“What the hell?” He babbles groggily, unnerved by the fact he’s woken up in a somewhat luke-warm embrace instead of cold sheets and an empty bed, equally unnerved by the taste of something sweet in his mouth. One part of him tells him to get the hell out of here. That he shouldn’t be so comfortable, shouldn’t be letting down his guard and snuggling up into the crook of this person’s shoulder.

...But why would he? He’s plenty strong, ain’t he? If anything happens, he can clobber this guy if something is tried and move on with his life. His muscles aren’t just for show, and besides, the sleep clouding his mind is enough for him to choose the warmth over stupid panic in what must be crack o’clock in the morning.

Though his body is still wired with nerves, entirely unused to the situation at hand, Banhammer carefully winds his hands around a trim, firm waist and breaths in the scent of cigarettes and... copper? A trickle of apprenhension slips down his spine. It doesn’t go away as Banhammer turns his face into the pillow instead and closes his eyes again, clinging onto the former ease he possessed when he hadn’t woken up and taken note of his circumstances.

It’s about a hour when he wakes again from an restless slumber. His arms are empty, and the only things keeping his body temperature neutral are the blankets and cap haphazardly clinging to his body. Banhammer pries his eyes open, absently noting his lack of blindfold, and takes account of the area around him while curled in his cocoon.

He’s on a mattress of sorts, except said mattress is on the floor and far too smal for his legs, and clinking sounds are coming for somewhere in the living room-esque area. From the side he can see, there’s a small dining table further up the room – confirming his suspicions of not being in a bedroom – and he can just barely make out  an L-shaped kitchen, all shining in amber-colored light.

The house is not big by any means.

With one last calculating gaze around what he can see – behind his shoulder is simply a worn down couch and a rather up-to-date television – Banhammer sniffles absently and untangles his arms, stretching them up stubbornly despite the twinge in his neck and back.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the spot.” He groans, leg kicking out, body shaking until he falls limp with a relieved sigh.

And then his eyes land on the needle in his forearm.

A needle? For what? Why is there a needle in him? What’s it there for? Are they taking blood? Why the hell is it always his bl—

His jerky gaze snaps up to the drip bag hanging from a nail in the wall, the liquid inside clear and translucent. Not blood. For some reason that doesn’t make him feel any better. Fighting down the anxiousness weighing down his chest all a sudden, the nerves making his heart thump faster, Banhammer throws the blankets off him and sits up, pawing at the adhesive patch keeping the needle inside him with clumsy fingers. As soon as he gets this abomination out of him, he’ll grab his stuff and get the hell out of here. Staying any longer would be a bad idea, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t really know, nor does he care at the moment.

“Stubborn bastard.” Banhammer hisses under his breath when the adhesive patch finally pries off his skin, biting back the nausea crawling up his throat at the sight of the needle plunged in his forearm with sheer will.

A door creaks open somewhere in the house. Banhammer ignores it, far too busy cursing himself out for his own two shaking hands. Does he just pull it out? It’s not taking blood, so it shouldn’t be messy, but what if he bleeds anyways? He really doesn’t want to bleed all over the place. He rather not see any blood at all—

A cautious, wary voice interrupts his thoughts.

“You’re awake.”

Banha

“Hey. Hey, Doc?” Banhammer starts, his voice wavering near the end. “Can you—how about you get this off of me, yeah? You know how to get it off right? Without any scars?”

“Greetings, everyone.” Medkit says menially with a sharp smile, one that’s all fangs and far too amused with the situtuation at hand. His gaze bores especially into Banhammer, who of which still struggles to pick his jaw off the floor. “Due to our... less than convenient circumstances, I will now be the on-field medic of Squad Zero. I hope to do my best at my new role.”

Chapter Text

A tall, wall-mounted mirror sits in the middle of a lavishly filled walk in closet. In its reflection shows a towering, dark demon who squints at himself through said mirror, combing a hand through back-length locs. The gold pieces clinging to every other loc shines in the bright lighting of the closet, matching with the golden rings decorating long, thick fingers.

Banhammer nitpicks at his hair for a moment, raking it away from his face and staring at his own subjectively stunning image before pull a hair tie from his pocket. He ties up the lenient strands into a half up bun and brings a single strand to rest in front of his face; his go to hairstyle for whenever he dresses up like now.

Perfect, he thinks in his mind as he looks himself over again, a small, smug uptick appearing on his lips.

He doesn’t do this often – the suits and the ties and the glamor – but today’s especially special. Well, for those involved, anyways. He himself doesn’t have much of an idea of what’s going down. There’s probably an email sitting in his mail explaining in crystal-clear detail the event he’s about to skip his way through, so he’ll glaze over it as he heads out.

All he knows is that Firebrand told him to look sharp and show up on time. Heh, talk about easy.

Banhammer’s attention falls from his hair to the three piece suit layered over his body, and he starts rolling up the sleeves of his charcoal black button up, pops another button open to show a little more chest because why the hell not.

A grand, dark purple blazer sits on his shoulders, held on by the golden chain running across Banhammer’s collarbones. Gold shyly lines the inner seams and coats the cuff links, highlighting the outfit with a eager pop of color. Banhammer doesn’t think he’s ever looked bad in gold, and his subconcious only solidifies the thought as he latches on his golden wrist-watch, a gift of sorts from his... colleagues.

Banhammer’s gaze flickers back up to the mirror as he makes sure his shirt is properly tucked into equally charcoal black trousers.

He looks good. And he feels it too.

With a satisfied hum, Banhammer finishes his touch-up and stalks out the closet, checking his watch for the time. He’d prefer not to be late if it means it spares him an earful from his uncle.

“Oh.”

There’s a noticeable amount of curiosity in Medkit’s gaze from where he sits sprawled across the living room couch, head tilting upside down over the arm to look Banhammer up and down.

Banhammer meets his gaze easily, brow raising smugly. “See something you like?”

“Mm.” Medkit flips over so he’s front down on the cushions, arms crossed on the arms and propping his chin. His eye roves Banhammer again... and again... and one more time before it lingers at his chest, shameless.

“You’re going to a formal event, correct?”

“Uh, yeah? What, you think I just threw this suit on to go shoppin’ ‘fer groceries?”

“Maybe I did.” Medkit murmurs while Banhammer snatches his wallet from the coffee table in front of the couch, pocketing the item. “You don’t exactly lack the necessary brazenness to do such a thing. But besides that...”

The room goes quiet. Banhammer glances at Medkit, who’s gaze is pointedly staring at his exposed chest.

“If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might have to come over there and do something about that.” Banhammer mutters with raised brows.

“What?” Medkit has the audacity to frown up at him like he hadn’t been ogling mere seconds ago.

“’Yer starin’.”

The way Medkit blinks up at him makes a smug uptick to Banhammer’s lips appear, even more so the confused honesty that comes after. “Y-yes, I am?”

“At my chest, specifically. You like it that much, huh? Who knew all I had to do was pop a few buttons and you’d be slobbering all over me?”

“I’m not slobbering.” Medkit scowls, ears flushing with embarrassment as if he hadn’t brought this entire situation on himself.

“Might as well be. What? Want me to pop a few more open? I can do that. Or would you rather be the one poppin these buttons?” Banhammer teases with a sharp grin just to see the way Medkit’s eye automatically flicks to his chest again before snapping away. He isn’t actually gonna pop more buttons. All he needs is Medkit’s visible excitement so he can drag the other demon for wanting to see another man’s chest.

Probably the most interesting thing he’ll do before he leaves for the evening; Banhammer makes sure to make the most out of it and saunters up to Medkit, leaning his hands on the headrest on either side of the other demon’s elbows.

He slips wandering fingers over both of Medkit’s bare elbows, watches the way Medkit snaps from his frozen spook and blinks rapidly at him.

“Is this your ploy to skip attending your event? Is that it?” Medkit eventually asks, completely shielded by Banhammer’s body.

“If that was the plan, I wouldn’t be in this stuffy suit right now. So no, this isn’t a part of my ploy. It very well could be, though. Wanna be my distraction? I’m sure Firebrand won’t fuss as much if I tell ‘em ‘ya kept me at home.” Banhammer huffs, amused at Medkit’s immediate disdain towards the idea.

Katana’s head tilts slightly lower. The other demon pauses where he stands, perplextion coating his voice thoroughly. “...Why is your bosom out?”

“Bosom—” Banhammer guffaws, a sudden cackle leaving him.

An amused snort leaves Medkit. “That’s what I’ve been trying to ask. It’s quite noticeable, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Katana agrees, slipping off his mask and setting it on the kitchen table. His furrowed brows and wandering eyes appear.

“...The marks?”

“Oh yeah. The jacket covers it, so it’s fine. I put another bandage over it too.”

“Alrighttt, bring it in, give me a kiss for good luck. Yup, you too. Come here. A nice wet one, okay?”

Though Medkit heavily wants to deny such a demand due to the way Banhammer puckers his lips and smacks them twice for good measure, his exaggeratedly disgusted face drops the moment a amused chuckle leaves Katana.

“You’re not supposed to humor him.” Medkit huffs as Banhammer cups Katana’s face with both hands and leans in with a giddy grin, peppering kisses all over Katana’s smiling face.

“He can humor whoever the hell he wants, stringbean. You’re just mad you ain’t the one gettin’ kisses!”

“Except you. You’ll take a mile when given an inch.”

Banhammer squints at him, expression affronted. “The hell I do—"

“You do.” Katana confirms simply, swallowing Banhammer’s oncoming squawk of betrayal by pressing their lips together for a proper kiss.

It’s somewhat endearing; the way Banhammer’s focus falters between the kiss and cursing out Medkit’s entire family lineage, eyes flitting for a moment before he grunts at a nip on his lip. Attention properly acquired, Banhammer settles for flicking up a middle finger at Medkit, one which Katana promptly drags down.

For his actions, Banhammer shoves an equally impassioned middle finger in front of Katana’s face, that damned grin spreading across his face. Katana narrows his eyes at the rude gesture and then looks at Banhammer.

“Behave.” Katana mutters against Banhammer’s lips, gripping the wrist of that hand tight.

“He started it.”

“But you did not have to finish it. Focus on me for a moment, and then you can bicker with him.”

“Someone’s in trouble...” Medkit drawls quietly, but Banhammer still hears anyway, nd his annoyed gaze snaps to Medkit as he huffs out an exasperated puff of steam.

It doesn’t take long for his attention to turn back to Katana though, fierce complaints on his lips as he presses kisses and nips along the scars on Katana’s jaw. “He’s such a bastard.”

“He is.” Katana agrees just as easily as he did with Medkits earlier claim. “But you aren’t any better.”

“Ho, I’m way better and both of you know it.”

He doesn’t see it, face buried in Katana’s neck as it is, but he senses the mutual look Katana and Medkit share over his head. Little piss stains, the both of them.

“One more.” Banhammer gives one last bite to Katana’s feathered ear and grabs the other demon’s waist, pulling their bodies flush together. He presses another kiss on Katana’s nose, peering at Katana as he scrunches his face briefly, and then captures his lips again.

Katana considers his outfit, hands slipping under the blazer to wrap around Banhammer’s waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of the charcoal button-up. There’s a interested glimmer in his eyes when he murmurs, “I think I’ll take this suit of yours off you when you return. The craftmanship is beautiful. It would be a shame not to appreciate it before you chuck it all off.”

(This part is from a drabble i shared with my oomf, charmed :])

speaking on that same note, the only thing I see for this is mayhaps banhammer coming back from work exhausted, and then katana asks if he can undress banhammer and help in get in cozier clothes? que katana carefully slipping bh's suit off while asking about his day, unclipping earrings and golden chains... a brush against a cheek here, a hand carding through let-down hair here... maybe bh slips a hand onto the back of katana's knee and caresses the spot while muttering about whatever he had to deal with, just to feel closer to kt... medkit slithers into the room as kt is finally slipping on the shirt he insisted on pulling over bh's body, the demon glowing with satisfaction when bh is properly dressed in that and his go-to choice of black boxers. fresh from a shower, medkit walks over to kt's side and overlooks the situation, from the three piece neatly folded on the bed beside bh to bh himself, looking drowsy and well cared for. "You're spoiling him." "Should I not?" Katana asks back with a tilt of his head. Medkit thinks back to the soft smile of satisfaction he saw on Katana's face earlier, how comfortable both banhammer and him looked, and finds himself at a loss for a counter point. "Mm. That's for you to decide. Come here." Katana leans in and lets Medkit brush their cheeks against one another, closes his eyes and hums at a hand smoothing over his other cheek. When they part, Banhammer is staring up at them, low-lidded eyes flicking lazily between Medkit and Katana. Medkit runs a hand over his jaw and down his neck, brushing a thumb lightly over Banhammer's adam's apple and caressing long enough to coax out a stuttering rumble.

Chapter Text

Clarity flashes in Katana’s eyes as the blade cuts flesh; he snatches back his weapon before it can hit bone and dodges to the side of Banhammer’s reach. What he doesn’t expect, however, is the way Banhammer swings his arm to the side and grabs his hakata by the front opening, wrenching the fabric in his white-knuckled grip. Then, he finds himself being pulled, and Katana gets the wind knocked out of him as a fist collides with his gut.

Bile rises in his throat. His stomach spasms dangerously. A fierce ache races through his abdomen, and Katana just barely manages to grab Banhammer’s wrist before another hit lands, squeezing tight around it.

Is he not going to pick up his hammer?

Eyes flickering between Banhammer and the weapon behind him, Katana hesitates for a moment before tossing his own blade aside, shaking his arms out in one quick motion to get the blood running.

“No sword?” Banhammer asks with a thrilled grin, the larger demon hopping from one foot to the other as their standstill preserved. “I didn’t take you for the type to throw punches so easily. ‘m flattered, really. Makes the idea of bashing ‘yer face in all the more excitin’.”

“I do not think I’ll allow such a thing.” Katana mutters, taking the moment to steady his breathing.

A moment passes, and then—

“Come.” Katana calls forth with a bold gesturing of his hand, voice low, measured.

Banhammer seems to swell with gusto, a subtle shudder zipping through his body as his grins grows ever more vicious. The air grows thicker with tension. The sheer weight urges Katana to lock up from fear, but he holds steady and ready. He intends to win this match, blade or not.

Banhammer moves. The demon brings his arms close to his torso, hands curled into loose fists, and he lowers himself, shifting his center of balance. A posture fit for close combat. The show of experience sends a nervous flutter in Katana’s gut, but that is all it is – a mere flutter. The instinctual nervousness is overpowered by the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the exhilaration high-wiring his nerves.

Banhammer shifts again, a subtle movement. His muscles, far more visible with that atrocious tight short-sleeve, coil with power. And then, he all but shoots forward.

It’s with a harsh stuttering of his breathing that Katana raises his arm to block a devilishly swift jab, Banhammer suddenly so much closer in a blur of purple.

Sharp fangs flash at him. A forearm slams into the side of his head, and Katana stumbles at least five feet before planting his feet underneath him, slightly scrambled by the far too powerful hit. He knows he needs to find an opportunity to hit back – an opportunity to flip the table and gain leverage – but Banhammer simply swings too fast for him to keep up.

Unwilling to open his body up for even one hit – not with how hard that last swing hit, frankly unwilling to find out how debilitating an unblocked one would be –  Katana protects himself from a fierce barrage of jabs, grunting with exertion as each one slams with what certainly feels like the force of a truck.

*katana swings bh to the floor, using the shock factor to pin bh’s arms to te floor. He sorely underestimates bh’s strength, and finds himself effortlessly flipped over, landing hard on his back. Banhammer sits atop his waist, cheeks and forehead all but flushed light purple, that stupidly proud grin stretching his face as he pants for exertion.

“That—That’s checkmate.” Banhammer jeers victoriously with that breathless, low voice of his, grip tightening around Katana’s wrist as if to further prove his point. Sprawling locs falling over his bright eyes. Knees squeezing around Katana’s waist.

And Katana – Katana all but forgets to fight back, his own body hauntingly warm with more than exertion.

It’s surreal; the way Katana’s gaze bounces from the other demon’s face to his heaving chest, only to stutter up again and falter at the way Banhammer’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. That look reminds him that he’s staring, far too hard to be socially acceptable.

“Yes. It... seems so.” Katana breathes out as an unfamiliar warmth spreads throughout him, shifting slightly underneath Banhammer before deciding it would be wise not to do such a thing when said warmth flares into something worse.

Katana’s face sets aflame, hands curling into fists as embarrassment swallows him whole. “Banhammer.”

Those deep-set, low-lidded eyes flash at the call, and Banhammer stares down at him, expression cloudy and distracted. His fingers shift against Katana’s wrist – rub and slip down slightly against bare skin. “Mhn?”

“Could you... uhm—”

Banhammer shifts briefly, hands slipping down Katana’s wrists before leaving altogether, and Katana’s mouth clicks shut as the other demon sits back while raking back his locs.

Banhammer shoots a teasing, somewhat mild grin at him, one of his hands smoothing ticklishly along Katana’s middle section in a way that has his stomach clenching. “Sorry, but I kinda like it up here. You were sayin’?”

Ah.

Exhaling shakily, Katana flounders helplessly for a moment, mouth opening and closing, eyes flickering from Banhammer’s face, to the side of the demon, only to end up back on that—that devilishly handsome visage. Then, in a moment of self-conciousness when Banhammer shifts again atop him, Katana grips the larger demon’s waist and yanks him into a tumble of limbs.

Head framed by Katana’s hands, Banhammer blinks up at him from where he lays underneath, claws digging into Katana’s biceps underneath his hakata. His voice is breathier than it should be, a intrigued, “...Ho?”

Katana purses his lips, eyes frantically soaking in the sight before social expectations – and something far more horrifying – has him pulling away and standing to his feet. Banhammer’s hands fall away from his arms in the process, a fact Katana – embarrassingly enough – mourns briefly despite himself.

Banhammer himself plants his hands behind him and pushes himself into sitting upright. “So... I’m getting’ a whole crate of beer today, right?”

“I’ll see to it.” Katana assures, though he’s more focused on avoiding Banhammer’s line of sight, turning around to retrieve his katana despite not having to.

“Good.” Banhammer sighs out and intertwines his fingers, stretching those long arms to the ashy sky. “I would’ve bashed ‘yer head into the concrete ‘n stole that wallet of ‘yers if ‘ya thought of runnin’ off. A deal’s a deal at the end of the day.”

The walk to the store is quiet.

Banhammer carefully peruses the aisle, hands tucked in his pockets as he leans forward and looks at each brand. Then, after a few moments, he turns expectantly towards Katana and flicks towards a case. “That one.”

It’s with a tired hum that Katana leans to the side and hauls up the case with one hand, briefly glancing at the brand before tilting his mask back towards a satisfied Banhammer.

“Is that all?”

“Is this an offer to pay ‘fer my groceries?”

“No.”

“You sure? I sure wouldn’t mind if you shelled out a couple more buxs—”

“—No. The deal was to buy you alcohol, and that was it. Buy everything else yourself.”

Banhammer’s face pinches up, evidently disgruntled by the lack of leniency, and Katana tries and fails to not to be amused.

“Shall we go then?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Banhammer mutters, and he begins to walk off before pausing. The demon whips around, squints at Katana who had begun to follow, and then looks further down the aisle.

He begins stalking down the aisle, purpose in his step.

Katana follows, curious.

Chapter Text

When Hyperlaser walks into the lobby, helmet tilted in a direction not quite in front of him but definitely not to the ground either, Katana gets the mild feeling that something is... off.

Whether his hunch is true or not; he does not know. So, he resolves not to bring it up just yet, standing to his feet from where he has been leaning against a wall and approaching the demon he spends many nights drinking with.

“Hyperlaser—”

“Oi, Katana!”

Exasperated at the familiar voice, Katana turns out of sheer courtesy towards Shuriken, who waves frantically at him with an fore-boding grin. He gets half the mind to ignore the boy; he does not, stopping his advancement towards a still rather aloof looking Hyperlaser to find out what he is needed for.

Nothing, apparently. By the time Shuriken and Skateboard let Katana slink away from their heated, rather foolish debate on whether shoes should be worn inside the house or not, Valk’s excited voice echoes through speakers Katana is never able to locate in SFOTH, and Hyperlaser is already walking up the stairs to the start of the arena, crowded among the other Phighters.

Katana watches him hopelessly, only pushed along by Vine Staff who urges him up as well.

Katana doesn’t see himself as one to get distracted easily. When he arrives to a Phighting arena, he intends to give it his all and come out victorious. When he finds himself pointing the tip of his blade at an opponent outside the arena, he decides then and there in his mind to cut down whoever stands in his way.

Some would call him dedicated. Katana believes this is what should be the standard when making decisions. Goals are meant to be fulfilled. Not fulfilling them is only a result of a personal failure; this is what he also believes.

So while he does manage to focus on cutting down Banhammer – who is growing to be a pain, Katana soon realizes with fierce disdain, with Boombox and Shuriken tailing him – a blue figure stumbling across the arena always seems to catch his eye every few moments.

Ignore it. Focus.

His bones threaten to give way and snap as that hefty hammer slams into his side; Katana grits his teeth through the searing pain and regains his balance, thankful beyond belief for Vine Staff and her persistent planting of ache-easing flora.

Banhammer grins down at him, blood not entirely his own splattered across his face and utterly unrelenting in the way he presses into their locked weapons. Katana finds himself glowering beneath his mask, arms trembling, fighting to push past the physical limit of his body that yearns for him to give in and let Banhammer win their exchange. A stray shuriken lodges itself into his bicep – another piercing the gauze around his torso. Strength slips away from his grasp, and Katana realizes in that moment he is about to lose.

Without thinking twice, Katana allows the giving out of his arms and propels himself backwards using Banhammer’s momentum, landing unsteadily on numb legs. He takes in a sharp breath, readjusts his grip on his blade, and widens his stance for the devastating blow he has honed for years, gaze locked on Banhammer as the demi-god steps forward only to pause and inhale sharply. That’s fine. Realizing his fate doesn’t make it any easier for Banhammer to escape—

Blue.

Katana’s form cracks as his gaze flicks to the side and zones into where Hyperlaser gets blown off the ledge he had perched on. And despite it all, Katana finds himself abandoning his stance without a second thought and snapping out his rope, barely getting it to wrap around Hyperlaser’s flailing figure. He snaps his wrist, opens his arms, and welcomes an armful of a startled Hyperlaser, securing the shorter demon by the waist.

Well, Katana surmises ruefully as Hyperlaser jerks his helmet towards him, that was rather unlike him.

“Are you hurt?”

Hyperlaser seems to stare up at him like he has lost his mind, stiff in Katana’s arms as if seconds away from sprinting away. Katana sums it up as a sniper’s instinct – Hyperlaser has always been rather adept at escaping close quarter engagements.

“Hyperlaser…?” He questions again, and Hyperlaser relaxes a bit in his hold, his helmet tilting away.

“I’m fine; thank you. Uh… I suppose we should—”

A hammer cracks down on the back of Katana’s skull.

In a fluttering of white particles, Katana finds himself stumbling forward as he respawns, his arms closing around air. The back of his head throbs with a veagence now. Getting past the shock of the exchange, Katana expels a pissed gust of air from his lungs, face tight with a scowl as he readjusts the grip on his weapon’s handle and strides back out into the battlefield.

The immediate regret Katana feels after driving his blade into Banhammer’s shoulder stings like alcohol on a open wound. The bitter feeling doesn’t affect him as much as it usually does after being bashed around like paperweight alongside his teammates – teammates which he should’ve been able to protect without failure – but Katana still winces at the pained noise Banhammer lets out as the bigger demon yanks out his blade and grips his bleeding shoulder, fingers twitching around the handle of his blade. He finds himself murmuring a clipped apology underneath his breath, unable to fight suffocating feeling in his chest at the thought of harming another demon so carelessly, and turns his attention away from Banhammer’s open wound. The sight makes nausea sit at the back of his throat.

Amid the conflicting sounds of their group talking to one another, a familiar voice muttering a curse catches Katana’s attention. It is a quiet sound. If Katana had been any further in his own mind, he would’ve missed it.

Sparing the hissing warden a short glance– who of which stumbles over to Vine Staff for a temporary fix – Katana sheathes his blood-stained blade, offers a few shallow bows to the people around him in a habit he is unable to break, and looks for a familiar blue suit. The adrenaline from earlier wears off as he does, putting a rapidly growing limp in his step and a labored edge to his breathing, but Katana ignores the aches in favor of approaching Hyperlaser who sits on a curb, eyes scanning all over his slouched frame.

He looks… like he’ll survive.

Katana expels a gust of air he didn’t know he had been holding, determined albeit slow in making his way over, and rumbles deep in his throat once close enough; a small warning. Hyperlaser still jumps a bit when Katana brushes his fingers against a exertion-flushed nape, a bit… off-putting considering he had warned the smaller demon.

“Katana.” Comes Hyperlaser’s shaky murmur, and Katana hums in reply, rubbing soothing circles on the back of Hyperlaser’s neck as the smaller demon turns to look up at him. His gaze roves over Katana, taking in his faintly trembling frame and favored side no doubt, and  Katana has no idea how to sooth the concern he knows plagues Hyperlaser’s mind. Does he offer words that dismiss his condition? Pretend he is perfectly fine? Lying puts a bitter taste in his mouth, but Katana finds he dislikes the idea of openly telling Hyperlaser his ailments as well, so he settles for smoothing his thumb over Hyperlaser’s nape once, twice, until an exasperated huff leaves the smaller demon.

Katana rolls his shoulders and offers his arm to Hyperlaser to help him stand, even if Hyperlaser is much more stable on his feet. A pointer finger is shaken at him as if he were a child, Hyperlaser’s familiar baritone settling comfortably on Katana’s ears even if the content of such a voice is… well, less than comforting.

“…not even on the same team, weren’t we?. Even if I did fall, I would’ve respawned eventually. It’s not that far of a fall.”

The words refuse to leave Katana’s mouth normally once he thinks of them; they drag up his drying throat and leave him with an tight sensation in his chest. “…You could’ve died.”

“I’m afraid my capabilities when it comes to dying are much lower than yours.” Hyperlaser states dryly as if simply the possibility of him dying is no large matter, that he doesn’t care as much as he should about the prospect of being dead. Gone. Vanishing without a second chance.

Shoving the uncomfortable thoughts to the side, Katana resists the urge to glance at where the blue helmet covers what he knows are stumps of bone, not the long, sturdy horns they should’ve been. Demons with bigger horns were always easier to kill, whether on accident or purpose. Newly spawned demons dying from tripping and cracking off their horns is more likely than not; elderly demons or demons without gears even more so.

Katana cannot fight the deep divot between his brows as Hyperlaser continues, the smaller demon leading them to spawn to recover from their wounds. “Besides, my helmet would’ve protected me from any substantial damage, and if the arena’s spawn radius failed to reach me, it wouldn’t be long for another spawn to take me. You, however, were in the middle of your phinisher. Did you truly have to throw away a team win like that?”

“I would save you again if I had to.”

Hyperlaser’s helmet stares at Katana in an awfully exasperated manner, but Katana doesn’t take back his words. Instead he holds Hyperlaser’s gaze and tilts his head slightly, issuing a small challenge for the other demon to rebut.

The rebuttal never comes.

Hyperlaser looks away with a brief, somewhat awkward clearing of his throat, gloved hands fiddling with cuffs that always seem to be stained pink. It’s an odd reaction, one Katana isn’t sure how to work around. Is Hyperlaser... uncomfortable? Upset? He doesn’t get to know, for the subject of his attention shifts the conversation before he can ask.

It doesn’t take long from the lobby to the locker rooms that Flipside sponsors for every phight. Katana follows Hyperlaser past the other phighters also in the room and wordlessly joins him on a free bench. They clean their weapons together after tending to their wounds, though Katana only decided to wipe down his blade because he has nothing else to do. Hyperlaser had been the one to settle down on one of the benches and pull out his gun after all, using nothing but the ultimate care to wipe it down and polish it as if anything less is unacceptable. Though he cannot see the other’s face, Katana can picture the focus Hyperlaser’s face shows; the slight furrow of his brows and unconscious thinning of his lips the further down the gun he cleaned. His gloved hands are careful as they maneuver and turn the gun around, attentive.

“Katana.”

Katana forces his gaze up to Hyperlaser, only then noticing the closed gun case and the fact his own sword sat half-cleaned in his lap. “Yes?”

“You’ve been staring at your sword for the past two minutes. I have reason to be concerned.”

“Ah.” Katana says flatly, and then after a hesitant moment, he decides to clarify for Hyperlaser’s sake. “Apologies, I was... well, my mind was rather preoccupied. I myself am quite fine.”

“You don’t say?”

“...I just did?”

Hyperlaser stares at him for a moment,

“Katana, that was simply a saying. You indeed explained yourself. Quite well, too.”

“Ah.” Katana blinks, feeling heat warm his covered face. He tilts his head down and resists the urge to fiddle with his hands, instead picking up the cloth beside him to resume the cleaning of his blade. “Thank you.”

And Hyperlaser simply hums in that idle, slightly amused way of his, his boots clicking against the floor when he stands to his full height.

Quite embarrassingly, Katana stares. Though his hand moves cloth against blade, his eyes follow the slow, slinking movements of Hyperlaser’s as the other demon puts together his gun cleaning kit. Slides down the back of his helmet only to linger on the small patch of nape visible to him.

Just looking at the spot has a sense of shame welling up in Katana. He doesn’t see Hyperlaser’s skin often – most of the time, the other demon is covered head to toe, gloves preventing the sight of a thick wrist, or awfully long socks that seem to continue no matter how much those ashen gray pants roll up.

Katana, he doesn’t go and look for Hyperlaser’s skin. He simply.., finds it. It doesn’t help that his gaze naturally follows the line of Hyperlaser’s body to that patch of bluish grey skin underneath a stiff collar.

Katana feels warmth run up his own neck as his gaze flickers from that nape to Hyperlaser’s broad shoulders, looking over the way they flex and shift underneath the signature suitthe other demon wears.

He shouldn’t stare, truly.

His eyes waver before flickering away, only to go right back to the sight of Hyperlaser clasping his kit shut. The other demon rolls out his shoulders and sighs softly – so softly, in fact, Katana doubts he would’ve heard such a sound had the changing room been fully occupied.

That mask tilts to him.

Katana pauses, blinking up at Hyperlaser as the other demon stares.

“Are you okay?” Hyperlaser carefully asks after a moment, helmet tilting.

It takes a moment for Katana to register the words inside that smooth, slow baritone. “Pardon?”

“I asked if you were alright.” Hyperlaser reiterates, coming closer, and Katana truly cannot help himself. His eyes trail up the confident line of Hyperlaser’s body as the other demon approaches, observing the self-ensured sway of his gait.

And then something happens that has Katana short-circuiting.

A somewhat cold palm rests on his awfully warm torso, right where his collarbones meet his throat, and Katana’s suddenly aware of how colored he must appear, practically burning up just for looking at a man of all things.

“You’re a little warm.. you also looked quite red? I don’t believe either of us indulged in any kind of liquor prior to meeting, so I wasn’t sure.” Hyperlaser murmurs as his hand shifts and presses against Katana’s neck.

“Ah... I... I see.” Katana blurts far too quickly, stumbling to his feet in order to get that hand off his skin. The way Hyperlaser freezes and stares at him with an air of confusion makes Katana wish he hadn’t, but... well... its for the best, really. “Shall we go get drinks now? The place we usually go to shouldn’t be too crowded at this time of day, so we’d best get there as soon as possible in case.”

And Hyperlaser – with a tilt of his helment and a huff so quiet, Katana wonders if he wasn’t supposed to hear it – slings his bag on his shoulders, drawling in that low, charming voice of his, “Yes, I guess we should hurry. Heavens knows what could happen should we be late, huh?”

It is a few moments after that Katana finds himself walking down bustling streets, side by side with the cause of his recent flusters.

Hyperlaser strides confidently next to him, though he is nearly hopping with each step. It takes a moment for Katana to recognize the struggle to match his own gait – he’s, to be frank, too busy, eyeing the nearing crowd of people laundering outside of the bar they frequent, all dressed in attire fit for riding motorcycles. They’re an unfamiliar sight – unusual. This bar isn’t particularly known to be frequented by certain groups of people like motorcycylists, more for a mix and mash of unique demons with no specific background.

However, when he does notice the way Hyperlaser looks seconds away from breaking into a jog, Katana shortens his sweeping steps, still eyeing the group.

“Not the most familiar sight is it?” Hyperlaser murmurs beside him as if reading Katana’s mind, sounding slightly winded, and, a bit sheepish, Katana hums. The group seems to be growing rowdier the closer they get, aggravated shouting sounding in the busy street.

Katana frowns, removing the hand resting on the inside of his hakama. Hyperlaser shifts as well, hooking his thumbs on the pockets of his trousers, slowing his gait.

The person in the middle of the group, an oddly quiet individual who had been watching with a glint in their eyes that made Katana uneasy, reaches behind them.

Katana barely registers the pistol spawning in their palm, nevermind the fact his own hand is already reaching for his blade. His heart stutters in his chest. Suddenly, he cant hear anything other than the ringing of his own ears as he watches that pistol point towards the loudest person of the bunch. He’s not going to make it, is he—?

Bang!

Stumbling over his own two feet from a sudden onslaught of dizziness, Katana blinks the haze out of his eyes.

The demon who had once wielded the gun clutches their hand, letting out a gut-churning cry.

Katana looks behind him, bewildered. Hyperlaser’s helmet tilts to him as the smaller demon flips a standard-grade pistol between his fingers and tucks it in its holster. A tense line makes up his shoulders, and without prompting, Katana can already picture the confused furrowing of those short, uneven brows beneath the helmet.

“...Let’s—” Hyperlaser starts slowly, firmly grabbing Katana’s wrist and urging him along. “...Let’s go inside.”

Katana’s focus flickers from the aggravated group of demons to Hyperlaser, and without a word, he maneuvers the smaller demon in front of him, shifting a little to shield him as they make their way into the bar.

“I didn’t think I’d be shooting anymore bullets today.” Is Hyperlasers first few words