Title: Pumpkin Tea at Midnight.
Summary: JLU crossover with AU. All Hallows Eve is perhaps the worst time ever to be a supernatural hooker in one of the physical plain's only "Ranch Houses". Slash, TerryxRex, HadesxTerry, mention of other pairings.
Disclaimer: Pfft, yeah. I'm sitting on a crappy couch, eating two day old pizza and I own the rights to the characters and TV shows and comics. Don't sue me; I could never get a good lawyer.
Warnings: Major AU, slashy-slashiness, there is incident of sexual conduct, slight blood and gore. Rock on, minions of the dark!
Dedication: To Rose Midnight Moonlight Black because it's Halloween, you know, and as we are doing a trade, I felt that she deserved a special treat with the whole university thing and studies. Need something to diffuse the tension and have some fun! Be warned, she asked for supernatural and specific characters and that's what this is supplied with. Happy All Hallows Eve!
-:-
It's misdirection. It's the heart of magic.
-The X-Files.
'Oh, by all, when is he going to let—gah…'
Using his teeth—so clean and white that is almost impossible to find among others succubus or demons in general—to grip and clench at the pillows and sheets beneath him, Terry resisted and stifled a pained cry from jutting out of him like a tongue as rough hands gripped both of his wrists and pinned them on either side of him. The nails that were so very black against his very pale flesh cut a little into the skin and drew tiny little droplets of red that melded into the black sheets and spotted the white pillow cases every thrust and change in position. The intruder into his opening continued mercilessly, as he had for the last two hours.
How hungry the king of the underworld was for nearly mortal flesh. He grew tired of the rotted dead of the underworld so quickly that Terry didn't expect Hades to expend himself for at least another hour if not even more should he decide to turn Terry onto his back again, fiddle with his long, lithe black spaded tale or nibble and lick the shells and tips of Terry's sharply pointed ears…give his wings a hard tug where fur met joints that made Terry cry out every time, no matter how hard he bit into his lips and tongue.
"Oh, my little Incubus," the king of the underworld growled in ardor and lust, his own forked tongue passing over his lips to lap at his jugular before swiftly pressing his teeth to the spit, pressing so hard that Terry did let out a little cry, Hades pausing a moment in his ministrations to tweak the nubs of his chest as tight and hard before continuing, "You feel even better than last Hallows Eve. Have you had more customers than usual this month?"
"…Fuck off," Terry hissed out through his teeth, canines biting down on his lip again as Hades—thank the entities of the universe, thank Zeus, thank Circe, someone—seemed to have been waiting for Terry to make such a comment the whole time and, of course, gave a roar that hurt the batling's sensitive ears. The peak and release felt like acid being poured into him by ounces and it was very unbecoming when Hades' arms went slack; the whole of his upper body crashed and settled atop Terry's back and wings, growling happily.
All Hallows Eve. The worst time of the year to be a supernatural hooker, save for maybe Valentine's and maybe St. Patrick's. Most of the year, Terry had regular customers that were a little rough, just wanted to talk, or wanted to be treated well in their own rotten lives. Unfortunately, Halloween—every damn, bloody year—tended to bring in the real crazies and wretched sins and demons and forgotten of the world. His Lord Hades loved to pick on Terry the whole date, with only short periods of rest for Terry so he could view over a few other hookers of the house.
Now looked about that time as Terry felt Hades pull out and gather up his robe, picking up the glass of vodka and milk he'd left on Terry's bedside table. The light skin, but dark winged hooker, flinched as he turned on his side to see Hades downing the rest of the drink and sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes and off of his forehead.
"That was fun," Hades leered, pulling on the door to Terry's room that led out to all of the other rooms of the whorehouse, the second floor that the dark haired hooker resided in leading out onto adjoining balconies, "Who else is in open court at the bar?"
Terry growled with his teeth bared, but rolled his eyes back and forth at the ceiling, counting all of the cracks in the paint and the metal rings that kept the canopy over his bed—black and blue silk—up to make the room look good.
"Probably Blade, Tala, Delia, Giganta, Volcana, Piper and Dot."
"Thank you," Hades purred, "You can have two hours to have some nutrients or whatever. I'll be trying my hand at the fairer sex. Come back here when I call you or I'll drag you back here and take you harder. Understand?"
"Perfectly."
With that said, Hades tossed the glass he had been holding over the side of the balcony and walked away towards the sounds of, '…It started out with a kiss; How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss—It was only a kiss…' coming from the bar where twenty-something demons and throw-away creatures were partying in enjoyment of their favorite day out of the 365 days of the year.
After waiting five seconds, the reasonable time available to wait for the light curse to sound off from the first floor where the whorehouse's person-who-wasn't-a-servant-but-in-the-service was going to find the broken shards of Hades' glass and then he slid out from between the sheets, grabbing his silk pants, and made for his balcony for some more pleasant company.
As expected, on the first floor of the brothel(in the room that served as the stage whenever a new costumer came in to survey all of the whores available in a line-up), there was a young blonde woman bent over the shards of glass, a broom and dustpan in both hands and growling third-world profanities.
Terry leaned over the banister, looking down at the young lady with a half smile on his lips, wings tipped upwards like an angel instead of a demon. Of course, it was kind of wrong to call the blonde on the floor young when neither of them were by any stretch of the imagination.
"Hey lady," Terry called down, "Need a little help with that?"
As the blue eyed blonde tilted her head up at his unexpected voice, a shadow or two passed over Terry, along with a shiver. Quite against his own will, he turned ever so slightly back towards his room to find another deep frown work onto his face like a bomb into cement.
Giggling like the hyena that she often turned into during a night with some of her more sick and twisted clients, was Delia with both Hades and Volcana in tow. The lord of the underworld followed after the short blonde former-Ifrit-now-mere-Jinniyah with a half-content look on his face, his strong immortal hand wrapped around the wrist of the ginger Succubi that looked less than pleased to have to perform a threesome with such a high-rolling John, but had to go along with it unless she wanted to be brought back with him ton Tartarus if he felt irritated enough. Delia had his big hand entwined with her own tiny one, her fingernails painted soot black and her other hand wound around one lock of her hair that was so like her twin's, save for the light tint of green it hand in certain lights. Her tattoos along her arms, back, neck and pointed ears lit up to their usual dusty blue (like the colors or smoke from blueberry incense) as she kicked her door opened, pulled the other two in and pulled it shut.
The Jinniyah gave Terry a wink before the big red door—red like Communist China flags—shut tight and the batty Incubus heard her three locks shut.
Terry could never understand why she was released from servitude as a bound and sort of trapped Ifrit—or powerful, but almost straight up evil Genie, as the common man pronounced her title—in exchange for her services of at least five hours a week in the house by the owner Mordred, to become a regular Jinniyah, while her twin still served as a Peri Jinniyah—or powerful, basically good Genie—for as long as the wretched blonde Brit felt like it.
Snorting at the display, Terry turned back to where the servant-not-servant had been…only to find her gone.
His blue eyes dimmed a little and he jumped from the second floor, wings flapping out and he landed gracefully. Much more beautiful than he should look, but maybe that's because he was more beautiful—inside and out—than anyone in the house.
He looked from the door that let in Johns and Janes to oversee the hookers to overview and oversee like cattle, looked to the hallway that led to the bar and dance hall where some of the girls sang and performed for certain clients that didn't always want sex—sounds of partying going on at full tilt and volume—swung his head the other way that went to the outside, a small labyrinth of the backyard just able to be seen from the open doors with the smells of chocolate and burning candles and pumpkins wafting into the house from neighboring houses.
He finally decided to head for the offices and kitchens. If he was lucky, he could find much better company there. Don't get him wrong, he enjoyed partying as much as the next sex fulfilling demon, but his ass really hurt at the moment, as well as the scratch marks along his backside and he just wanted to do something pleasant and homely at the moment.
Walking where very few of the other whores dared to tread on account of the seven different levels of rooms—laundry room, kitchen, sauna, pool, gym, billiard and filing—Terry allowed the calm of the hallway to wash over him. On torches welded into the walls like the regal stone ways of castles in European countries, were lit candles because Mordred wanted to save on the power bill and the one person who really had no sex in the entire house liked the atmosphere of firelight and little sticks of burning incense of Opium and Black Magic—he had actually laughed when he learned the names of most of the incense kept in the house—and he had to squint to read the signs on the doors.
Finally, he came to the very end door, thirteen very large candles making the room light up perfectly on account of the chandelier they were screwed into hanging in the middle of the room.
The room was less empty than he had hoped it to be.
But, that didn't mean that he didn't mind this sort of company; just until the king of Tartarus decided to pull him back into a world of hurt Terry thought he would be used to after the first two-hundred years.
Ghosting through the open door, Terry found himself in the company of the house's Fallen Angel: Rex Stewart, former guardian angel of the armies of the American Revolution. He lost his job near the end of the war because of the death of some big shot that kicked it and had ended up in the whorehouse because of a massive bout of depression. Big and bronze and very durable; with wings near twice the length of his body the colors of some of the birds of Egypt or Africa, light beige with brown stripes and spots. He was used almost as much as Terry and, despite the two of them having almost completely opposed points of view in religion, sexuality, politics with the list going on (forever), the two of them had been sort-of friends/sort-of romantically involved for about two years. They had a dialogue, which was more than they had with their former romances—Terry's last girl had dumped him for only really being involved in sex and always disappearing during the night to do whatever batty Incubi did, and Rex's girlfriend left because he lapsed into long depressions and fits of anger that she seemed to only make worse because she was a princess and he felt he had nothing to offer her.
Rex lifted his head from where it had been balanced on his fist, and blinked over at the form of Terry taking a seat on the other side of the island that Rex was at, two empty teacups just sitting there for some reason. One cup looked the size of both of Terry's fists held together, figured like a shriveled pumpkin and the other cup looked twice that size and with Jack-O-lantern smiles and paint on the outside.
"Long night?" Terry asked nicely, looking about the room; the wood stove was lit with a teapot wheezing out steam not quite boiling the water just yet, little cookies and candies were in bowls lining the counters, dishes were cleaned and drying on the wrack at the sink and near the window farthest from the fridge was a toy house in an exact inch by inch replica of the Russian Czars palace with one of the windows lit up and a shadow passing by it every now and then. A beautiful kitchen and with everything always alright when Mordred was out.
Rex nodded, and with no invitation, leaned over and rested his chin on Terry's shoulder, drawing the smaller being onto his lap, with his fingers gently soothing the scratches and breaks in the skin along Terry's back, "Probably still had one better than you, though. I heard from Maxine that you were entertaining Hades this evening."
"I am," Terry sighed, just sort of slumping into Rex's back, his own warm skin on the just as warm angel making them both feel like they were under fluffy cotton blankets, rather than like the sheets that were in their rooms, "He's giving me a short time off to see how far he can bend and break Dee Dee and Volcana. I have maybe three hours if neither of their spines crack and leave them quadriplegics."
"It could be worse," Rex chuckled, dull teeth—not at all like Terry or most of the others of the house, not biting and mean and begging to puncture flesh—nibbling the edge of Terry's jugular where Hades had been, before just giving the skin a slight kiss and moving on, "You could have been in my shoes and been dealing with Ares."
That there sent a mean spike up Terry's back and gave him a good reason to look Rex in the eye with sympathy. Hades was sodding, shagging, wretched wanker, but Ares was a sadistic, unfeeling bastard who only like it rough and punished anyone he was with if they didn't get him to come within an hour. Leather and bondage often came with him and Terry ducked out whenever a line-up was called for the war god.
Terry gave the angel a hesitant and polite kiss on the forehead just above the eye before he shifted back onto his own seat at the sounds of footsteps coming their way in a mad hurry.
Sure enough, rushing into the kitchen, came Delia herself, along with Volcana. Delia was without clothing—again—and Volcana was wrapped in a bedsheet.
"Hiya, fellas!" Delia greeted, not really looking at them as she went straight into the cupboards, elbow thoughtlessly knocking into the doll house and caused it to move three inches towards the edge of the counter until Rex reached out and put it back. Delia could be so bubble headed sometimes.
"Rex, Terry," Volcana greeted uncaringly, going to the opposite side of the island the boys were at the snoop around—looking rather desperate and in haste—the insides of the fridge, "You wouldn't know if there's any more vodka left, would you? And half and half milk?"
"Not a clue," Rex answered, still keeping his green eyes on Delia so she didn't knock over something or, worse, set something on fire as she pulled out a bottle of wine and some of the fancy crackers kept around for fancy guests (he supposed Hades qualified as such), "Why?"
"Mr. Fire and Brimstone wants some or he threatened Volcana a position in the middle of him and myself," Delia answered, setting the objects she'd collected on the counter to look over the teapot and see what was in it. The light emanating from inside the doll house was added onto in a few other windows, all in the direction looking over towards Volcana.
"Of course he did," the batty Incubus muttered, crossing his legs on a whim and banishing some minor thoughts from his head. Everyone in the house knew that when a John asked Delia to a party of three, she was more than happy to go full out with one of the lesser people. She had done a few rounds with Jack and Melanie and neither of them would do work with her anymore after the welts they'd gotten from the little blonde Jinniyah.
Volcana, for her part, was looking a little livid as it was evidenced that there was no vodka or milk of any kind left in the fridge.
Slamming the heavy door of the fridge, she turned to look at the Roman numeral encrusted clock above the arc of the door and found it to be fifteen minutes to midnight. She stomped her foot and some flames licked from the tips of her hair and the ends of her fingers and all the time the little flecks of orange and blue heat singed the sheets she was wrapped in.
"Shit, shit, there's nothing left! Fifteen minutes and he would be gone for that meeting, but I can't wait that long!"
Both Terry and Rex looked sympathetic, Delia just stood in the doorway with her bounty and humming a little tune under her breath, '…I've been trying to be where you are. And I've been secretly falling apart…'
As an act of last resort, Terry coughed pointedly, drawing the flaming lady's attention and pointed towards the doll house. All of the lights on the inside were lit up and blinking at them all.
Volcana shook her head with a look on her face as though telling Terry that he was out of his mind. Nobody in the house really liked to knock or rub on the doll house unless it was completely and utterly, one-hundred percent necessary. As it were, she didn't step back from the thing and Delia started giggling.
"You want me to knock?" Delia asked the ginger woman, already resting her naked rear on the counter and skimming her fingers along the sill of one of the little windows. Her black fingernails glowed almost see-through from the bright light inside the doll house.
As a rule among all of the hookers in the house, Mordred had made it clear when they all had been given the job that they were allowed one wish a day from the resident Peri. Technically, he was her master, unlike Delia who had gotten her freedom through tricking him and a few other people. This provision of wishes for the staff was a punishment to Delia's twin after she had botched his wish to remain young forever in a way he perceived as being on purpose. He was stuck in the body of a twelve year old forever, but people still rarely used the Peri after Nelson Nash (the highest grossing hooker the house had ever had) had wished for a bigger dick. The arrogant man had not headed Delia's twin's advice when she said he really didn't, but granted the wish anyway. His penis grew with a lot of pain right then and there to eight inches around and fifteen inches long.
He kept it for a week, but after he ended up in the emergency room twice for a few accidents caused by the fact that it wouldn't go flaccid and none of his old customers would come back, he wished it back to how it was and moved to the farthest room in the house away from why she had put her doll house—or in laymen's terms, her "magic lamp".
Without warning, Delia knocked on the window under her finger.
As a result, the lights in the doll house flashed brilliant and almost painfully bright, shadows in the room seeming to twist away from the beams of illumination like they were thorns upon sensitive skins and toes. A little door at a less than an inch tall balcony slammed open and murky grey mist flew out among the four whores, shuttered twice like a twister and then configured into a solid shape, a person, a woman. Delia's twin Deidre; the long, blonde haired Peri Jinniyah, who kept the house clean and always wore the some black dress and no shoes, her tattoos similar to her sister's but less noticeable and in white rather than blue.
Deidre stood in the center of the kitchen with her arms crossed and Volcana took a step back away from her as her blue eyes flicked over to her sister. She didn't seem very happy, but that was really just the fact that someone had woken her up in the middle of the night. She was usually as good natured and spunky as Delia sans the masochism and evilness.
She yawned and leaned on the island, some of her hair getting in her eyes, "What do you want?"
"Volcana wants to make her daily wish, Dee Dee," Delia chirped, skipping behind Volcana and pushing her closer to her sister, who narrowed her eyes at her twin.
"Why don't you do it, Dee Dee?"
"Don't feel like it. I want to dominate."
"Dominate who—never mind," Deidre moaned, walking to the now shrieking teapot and brought it away from the heat so it would stop screaming, "Miss Volcana, make your wish."
The ginger woman lost all of the flame she had spurted up a while ago and took a deep gulp of air, thinking about how to word her wish.
Terry and Rex won't lie when it was noted by both of them and the ladies that they leaned forward in anxiousness to see just how badly Volcana could screw this up. Where Deidre was concerned—no, where both twins were concerned—people had to be very specific in their wishing. What was the old phrase? It's not what you wish for, it's how you wish.
Though Deidre was a Peri and those were benevolent, she tended to screw up more often with rude or stupid people. Ira Billings, the whore who used hypnotism with his clients once wished from her a million bucks and Derek Powers, a whore who was a little older had asked for a whale of a good time in Hawaii.
Ira had received a very large herd of seventeen different kinds of male deer and Derek had landed in Hawaii but spent his time tracking down people to help him get a whale three times the size of a Sperm whale—from the time of the dinosaurs, by the way—off of the beach.
"I wish," Volcana started, screwing her eyes together and hoping to whatever kind deity looking down on her that this did not end badly, "For a twelve ounce bottle of vodka that will taste good and not kill anyone mixed with the same kind of milk that's in the half and half carton you buy the house every day. Please, please, please, let that be specific enough."
Yawning again, Deidre snapped her finger and in Volcana's hands appeared a bottle of exactly what was asked for, mixed in milk and all.
The ginger hooker let out a massive sigh of relief and repeated 'thank you' over and over again before disappearing out the door, dragging a lecherously grinning Delia.
Terry and Rex grinned, pleased, as Deidre got the teapot and poured the both of them a full glass.
"This is pumpkin tea," the Peri stated, already slithering back into the form of a cloud of smoke and into the little window in the doll house where both the angel and the Incubus knew to be where the Russian royal couple had slept that now served as her bedroom, "It's good luck to drink some, I think."
"Well," Terry whispered, blowing on the tea before taking a long sip and just pecking Rex on the lips to give him a little taste before he had his own, "We all need that. Luck, I mean."
Rex, gave a mock frown and downed his drink in a single gulp while Terry sipped his slowly, savoring it, "Not all of us."
"Hm."