#miidnighters

she didn't. they're just acquaintances, right? the kind where they hang out, but beren does not bother to remember billie's favorite things given how unpredictable their hangouts are. oh shit. does billie see it differently? does she see them as friends?

a thing to worry about later. now she's holding a baby pink pilates matching set. high-end, which you can judge by looking at the perfectly aligned seams and the way her fingertips effortesly glide on the smooth spandex. " everyone loves a matching set, honey. " she says it with that kind of a 'duh' tone in her voice, throws the clothing at her acquaintance.

friend? acquaintance. no. friend. but like what is the definition of friend? beren will have to look it up on that cambridge dictionary website her coworker told her about.

matt is shirtless and errol is staring.

this isn't actually an unusual situation for them-- errol likes to think he's often more subtle than this-- but the vampire is finding it hard to listen to what the other is saying to him because, well...

he's sweating. a lot.

keen eyes zero in on a bead of sweat as it rolls down the side of his neck, where errol was already staring thanks to the rushing of blood just under his skin, and he wants nothing more than to push him down, straddle his hips, and lick away the salty liquid. his breathing gets just a touch heavier and those same eyes follow as the sweat slides further down over his pecs, over his stomach, down to--

a hand wipes the bead away and eyelids flutter as he seems to come back to himself, gaze flicking up to matt's face, and errol is as glad as he always is that he's not able to blush, because at least now there's some plausible deniability, right?

saying tedi doesn’t know how they got here would be a big lie. too many jokes, too many charged fleeting looks and a lot of mick’s cocky words are the reason tedi is kneeling on the bed (!!) on all fours. she has reached that relationship point with tate where having him behind her sparks arousal rather than fear.

the same can’t be said with mick, though.

she’s been quite vocal about wanting to suck his cock while tate fucks her crazy, but when it really came to having two large men, one of them she isn’t familiar with in a bedroom setting, looming over her tiny form she chickened out.

couple of sweet, reassuring words later from both of them and here they are.

mick’s huge body is plastered underneath tedi, his large knucles tease at tate’s slick hole as his big cock is flushed and wet and so snug in tedi’s little mouth.

" ever worry you'll accidentally inhale ? " ── she wasn't an artist herself ( in any way that most would acknowledge ) nor was she the proprietor of the halls she so comfortably roamed ( though the confidence found within every stride said otherwise ) ; instead, rogue was simply ... an admirer. someone who had been trained to know good work when it was presented to her, and smart enough to know that if the work wasn't worthwhile they wouldn't have been offered the space to work in the first place.

THIS IS A hell of a way to find out you're someone's emergency contact. He hates that Matt has to find out this way, instead of some other, less fucked up way, but here they are.

THERE'D BEEN A situation at the hospital. Crazy, that it had happened here of all places, and not out on the street, or in the rig, or anywhere else that this would make sense. He wasn't even the one responsible for drop off; he was walking through the ER, just to get to a goddamn vending machine in the waiting area, and some fucker had snatched him and went fucking crazy on him with a knife. Shoulder, hand, hand again, arm - side of his throat. A new scar will adorn the curve of his skin and muscle where clavicle meets neck. He thought he was going to die.

HE DIDN'T, WHICH is fine, and worker's comp is going to handle the rest of this, thank fuck. Paid leave is in the cards for him, considering how fucked his hand is. He's sitting here staring numbly at the bulky bandages on it until the door to his room opens, and he looks up to meet his gaze.

after the fights ; he waits. knows his blood is tainted, perhaps more than the others around him - more than the half-sasquatch man, more than the ugly orc's, more than the gorgoyle's he's just beaten to a pulp. his blood is old and powerful ; something his father tells him everytime he visits him in prison.

old and powerful blood tends to heal on its own.

in the grand scheme of things, it's not so bad of an injury. it's the bruising around it that makes it look so nasty. (granted, her metric of how bad is bad is ... skewed. at least.) the light but wide bruising paints the surface of her left hand, looking a bit like it'd been shut in a door. annette hardly notices tate reaching for the wrapped up & bruised hand until he makes contact. she flinches, gasping sharply as her hand recoils against her chest. "oh — ! a-ah ... i-it. s'f-fine. my, um ... mi - mir-rror. um. br-broke."