The Pretender

Ah. That. He's honestly surprised that they haven't had this conversation before. Considering how many explicit interactions they've had. But then again, Stan is part of the equation, and he doesn't have the best track record of proactive conversations.

So he's just going to rip the topic off like a band-aid.

Archer gave a relieved sigh and relaxed. "I am also." he shared then more quietly, "Though... I don't know if that would have mattered."

He thought about the time frame given and did his best to remember their excursions and meetings. This must be part of that season Stan had mentioned a few times. Quite insatiable appetite during that time.

“I don’t know, Stan… Benni is such a good kid despite everything. And I feel like they’ve been… outperforming even me lately. Maybe I should retire.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “For real this time?”

“Yes, for real this time. Besides, I can still keep up with my hobbies.”

“Your hobbies become jobs. You like the praise and attention your work gets you. I don’t think you’re capable of fully retiring.”

“Well, Irma has a contingency plan for when, or if, I do. Honestly, I think it’d throw her through a loop if I actually went through with it.” Alphonse sighed and stared at the ceiling. “When Cadmus finally settled into being a functioning adult, I worried he’d never find something to excel at. Then he got into big business, finance, and whatever else he does around the realm. Then the triplets came along and started carving out their own paths. Artisanal workmanship practically baked into them.”

He paused.

“And I think Benni finally found their spark. Despite the life they were handed… we were never great parents, but I’m proud of them. Proud and a little devastated that they’ve surpassed me.” He snorted softly. “Also mildly annoyed that the fashion genius turned out to be Karnus, who refuses to actually create anything.”

Stan frowned. “What are you getting at, babe? You’re rambling.”

“…I think our time is slowing down. We’re not the main characters in our own lives anymore.” Alphonse’s eyes darted away, suddenly sheepish. “I think we should try to put things right before we’re… written out.”

Stan looked at him for a long moment. “What exactly do you have left to put right?”

“I said we. And it’s not like we’re leaving anytime soon, so we still have time to ask forgiveness and break a few generational curses.”

“Generational?”

“We’ve lived for generations, Stan. You more than me. Our baggage is generational by definition.” He rubbed at his face. “Point is, we should work our shit out now so our later years are easier to live with.”

“What’s easier than this?” Stan gestured lazily around the room. “You keep us comfortable. We spend half the winter fucking to the annoyance of our children.”

Alphonse laughed despite himself, then quieted again. “That’s not the same thing as being at peace with ourselves. Honestly… wouldn’t you rather have a better relationship with Benni?”

“I do have a relationship with them. I get along with Karnus, and the grandkids love me.”

“…Stan.” Alphonse turned to him flatly. “Do you not see Benni as a separate person from Karnus and Syliph...Do you even talk to Syliph?"

“Well, they all came from the same kid..…”

“They’re triplets, We need relationships with each of them individually. Or at the very least, one where I’m not getting shot at with crossbows.”

Every other second he kept expecting those dragging teeth to clamp down onto his shoulder, he kept expecting the vice grip of pain and welling up of blood, his muscles under the path of those sharp points kept jumping and trying to get ready for it, and his nerves were being scraped raw with anticipation over and over again when that bite never came.

And then, if that wasn't enough, soon he didn't just have teeth to contend with; now there was a smooth tendril curling around his arm. Along with Stan's tongue they felt like curious snakes, distracting him from the knife edge sensation only long enough to torment him with something softer.

Jesus fucking christ.

He normally wore a long strip of sterile bandages along the length of both his arms, but since turning into a halfway furry creature he'd sometimes been foregoing those coverings because they felt weird against his what little fur he had. Today was one of those times, so Stan's extra appendages would be treated to the texturally complex mess of scars hidden under his shirt-- not to mention the shallow wounds in Worth's shoulder left from Stan's first little season-impulse bite.

To Worth, it just felt more and more like he was about to be eaten. Were those hesitantly spoken ground rules actually being listened to? Or was Stan just swallowing up the sounds they made?

Aside from the differences between wiry fur and peachfuzz, between scars and skin, Stan could probably feel his pulse fluttering underneath the dip of his collarbone, or along the inside of his bicep; galloping along like he was prey and had been caught by a wild thing. Beating a mile a minute, not really because he was scared--no really, he wasn't!--but because--

Well either way. He'd started purring somewhere in there, so nerves weren't the only thing speeding up his heart rate.

The touch to the back of his neck was allowed, and he tilted his head against the tips of those claws as that mouth came closer to his own. His eyes didn't look scared anyway, just pleasure heavy and half lidded as he peered up at those teeth. His gaze only flickered up to make eye contact a few moments, just long enough for him to mutter a desperate little admonishment under his breath.

"Ya always play with yer food this fuckin' much?"

And then his focus was wandering back to Stan's jagged line of a mouth, back to the smattering of bright red blood still decorating a few of those sharp teeth from the first bite, and he was struck with the wildest urge... An impulse of his own to lean forward, just as much as tendrils and hands would allow, to close the distance between them and press his mouth to one of those teeth.

A kiss, maybe, sure, but more yearning than affectionate. Beseeching. Pleading. Sometimes, back when he was in college and his car wouldn't start, he'd pat the dashboard and talk to it in the most sweetly strained voice. Please please please, just gimme somethin' baby, c'mon. He felt a little bit like that now; his whole body buzzing, his blood already on fire, the source of what he wanted so close but still keeping him on a razor's edge.

He didn't like to beg (not if he could help it) but he did kiss the very thing that could kill him, letting his tongue dart out to lick his own blood off one of the dozens of daggers that made up Stan's monstrous mouth. C'mon, c'mon... just give him something.

And that on top of the increasing pulse, purrs and other held back noises...

So yeah he had been a bit distracted but the words were not ignored. Not interested in dying today. Got it. Decent enough request.

He pauses right before the gap between them was closed, maw stretching to far too pleased grin at the frustrated reprimand. The Creatura gives his equivalent of a wink, his pointed tongue flicking out against Worth's partially pouting lips.

"Only the lucky ones~"

As Worth leans in there was absolutely no attempt to hold him back. Why would he? Other than to keep control. But he had other ways of doing just that. Claws move to the back of the werecat's head, massaging encouragingly right behind the ears as their mouths mingle. The other set of claws move down to the other's hip, swiftly pulling them yet even closer, his leg settling between Worth's. The tendrils shift to further secure him in place as he couldn't entirely be bothered to move them elsewhere. This, whatever it was, was happening here and now.