sunchime | [ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

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[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II
Part I (extremely NSFW) (it's very gross) (I'm sorry about everything)
Part II (NSFW post)

IT'S BACK, BABY

Imagine, if you will, that Drift is not a robot, but a gratuitously tropey half-demon hunter roaming around Boston killing demons in order to atone for his as a, well, killer for the demons. For all intents and purposes you can just assume this takes place in the same universe as Buffy (or something like it) for the sake of using a conveniently existing lore that I already really like. Maybe with an extra side of Kabbalah. whatever

HERE ARE SOME FACTS ABOUT DEMON HUNTER AU DRIFT:

Drift is half-demon on his father's side. He never really knew his dad, idk he like fucked off or got slayed at some point when Drift was young and he was mostly raised by his mother, who died of cancer when he was a teenager. It was real sad and Drift had no money and got pretty promptly kicked out of his mom's apartment shortly after her death. This made Drift a TRAGIC TEEN ORPHAN who was homeless on the streets for a while, and given his ~UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA~ it wasn't really very long before he fell in with a bad crowd. A demon crowd
Tragic teen orphan Drift got into drugs, specifically orihalcon, a potent substance derived from the refined blood of certain types of demons, because regular human drugs don't quite cut it for him. He was pretty knee-deep in the local demon community, partly because he didn't fit in anywhere else, partly because some of them knew his dad.
Drift spent a while as a homeless addict, barely scraping by, until he was recruited by Megatron, a powerful demon lord who saw much more potential in Drift and his untamed demon powers. He offered Drift a place in his ranks even though he was half-human, and helped him hone his terrifyingly natural talent for violence. For a while Drift mostly did it to feed his habit, but he began to enjoy the rush of violence and of releasing his DEMON SIDE way more than the drugs and eventually got clean.
He also inherited this sweet demon sword from his dad that Megatron apparently had handy. It is powered by his DEMON SIDE
Eventually though Drift's taste for violence got a little out of control and after pissing off some of his superiors for wildly disobeying orders in favor of MORE VIOLENCE, he fucked off and went into hiding. It was at this time that he met a witch named Wing from a smug hippie witch cult based in San Francisco. Wing offered him sanctuary and to teach him to better control his demon side by being ~~more in tune with the spirits~~. Drift took the sanctuary because he had nowhere else to hide, but wound up begrudgingly coming around to Wing's way of seeing things, at least enough to grow to care about him. Unfortunately for the both of them Drift's UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA led Megatron's forces right to the Wing's door and he got horribly murdered. Drift managed to get away but he was so tragically torn by the untimely death of his spiritual sensei that he swore off working for Megatron and decided to USE HIS POWERS FOR GOOD
Since then he's discarded the name Megatron gave him and returned to Boston as the newly-reformed demon hunter Drift. He lives in a tiny, shitty apartment in Southie and fights demons by moonlight in order to help people out and atone for his murder-filled past. He has fully embraced his former mentor's spirituality with a level of enthusiasm that, tbh, should probably be worrying. He believes (or hopes, at least) that what Wing taught him will not only help him keep his demon side in check (he is pretty much always concerned he will LOSE CONTROL), but also lead to his eventual redemption. Unfortunately Drift is still learning how exactly to have real faith in something because he is the world's biggest faker
He is Jewish because I know what I like and oh boy does he ever dabble in Kabbalah and a lot of other magical spirituality bullshit that mostly drives other people up the wall
Being half-demon has a lot of perks, SUCH AS: super strength/reflexes/stamina, accelerated healing, and being able to jump way higher than any human. He's obviously not as powerful as a full-blooded demon, but plenty powerful enough to be able to take them head on. He's also really good at fighting shit. Drift's swordsmanship is pretty solid, having been trained in Megatron's demon army, but also he has studied very seriously from a lot of kung fu and action films
He literally owns fourteen swords

PREVIOUSLY ON DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU:

Rodimus is this AU's equivalent of the Slayer, and Ultra Magnus is her Watcher. She and Drift are best buds who also make out a lot. Ultra Magnus STRONGLY DISAPPROVES of Rodimus spending time with someone with Drift's substantial murder past but Rodimus believes wholeheartedly in Drift's turning a new leaf.
Perceptor (Percy) is a talented witch and physicist who also serves as Drift's go-to for information about demon lore and magic. They go back a long, long ways, and is one of a handful of people Drift trusts implicitly.
Dealer was, predictably, Drift's orihalcon dealer when he was living on the streets. There were some bad (good) (bad) times that Drift would really love to never talk about, and Dealer loves to hold over his head.
Ratchet is a trauma surgeon whose family was killed by demons around the time Deadlock was active. After patching up Drift a couple of times, they fell into an undefined sort-of relationship that nearly came to an end when Ratchet found out just who Drift used to be. After taking some time and talking to just about everyone else Drift knows, Ratchet decided he still wanted to know Drift as he is now, though things between them are still uncertain.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Fuck. He's really reminding Rico of himself right now, and he doesn't exactly like it. Which is exactly why he acts the way he does, but it's not fun to be on the receiving end of it. The loss of each glass genuinely cuts through him, a possessive fury that lingers in his throat. His voice drops two octaves, his words a rumble of offence in his chest.

"Sure we do." Rico steps right up, pinning him right back with a stare. "We had a lot of good times, huh? Fun times. I knew you way back when you were a strung-out, shivering junkie scraping by on the street. Always thought it was a real hoot spending time with you. I even helped you out of a rough patch or two. Remember those?"

Well. "Helped".

Edited 2017-12-04 02:01 (UTC)

"How could I forget?"

There had been a time when a stare like that from Rico would've flustered him, made him look away and trip on his words, because Drift -- sad, lonely, pathetic little Drift -- couldn't ever get his wits about him in a confrontation. But Deadlock just looks coldly amused. The other demons with him are watching the confrontation with some amusement of their own, but they're starting to spread slowly through the apartment, apparently taking stock.

"All those favors -- well, favor for a favor, right? You'd help me, I'd help you -- in a manner of speaking." He flexes his fingers again. It's like he's got an itch. "But I'm not scraping by anymore. Even made a little something of myself. So I figured it was about time I paid you back."

"Sure. You can start with the glasses. Four hundred fifty dollars each." Rico tilts his head to the side slowly, deliberately. "And let's say a thousand for replacing the door frame."

The other demon's movements don't go by unnoticed. The back of his neck stands on end, and Rico flexes his own fingers, trying to discharge the tension in them. He's no stranger to fights, especially against other demons. He's left more than his fair share of broken bones and twisted ligaments in his path, and gained a reputation for his hand to hand, brutalizing his opponents with his fists. Not all of them easy pickings either.

He always comes out on top, but against this many? Rico isn't often in the habit of feeling doubtful, but there it is anyway.

So he curls his fingers inwards, and strikes before they can.

Deadlock lets out a short laugh at that, and so do the other demons, as though Rico invoicing the damages to his apartment is some kind of hilarious joke. Now that he's awake to it, trained for it, Deadlock sees the little hints, the way Rico telegraphs his next move. Superhuman reflexes were never much good when he was drugged out of his mind and didn't know how to use them, but now -- now, when Rico lashes out to strike, Deadlock's hand snatches out and grabs him by the arm. His grip is far from gentle.

"Oh, if we're talking damages," he says, a guttural edge to his voice now, "I think we can go back a little farther than that."

One of the demons picks up what looks like a very expensive table lamp and tosses it across the room. Deadlock doesn't so much as flinch when it shatters.

"We could talk about the time you offered me a hit if I'd stand in line in front of an Adidas store for you. I was two days into withdrawal and I stood outside there for, what? Nine, ten hours? You laughed in my face after. Sure, you gave me what you promised, but you know what? The trade felt just a little uneven." Deadlock's eyes are narrowed now, his grip tightening on Rico's arm. "Or we could talk about the time you bribed a bouncer to get me inside a bar just so you could have a little entertainment -- and I recall distinctly saying that I didn't want to. Cracked a few things, as I recall, and you wouldn't even do me the courtesy of stopping your bike so I could get off. That's kind of fucked up, don't you think?"

Rico isn't going to give him the indignity of flinching. But he is surprised, and a little of that must reflect in his eyes. His gaze flickers from his hand, to his face, and then a thin-lipped smile appears on his face.

"Sure it's fucked up. But don't make yourself a victim here, buddy boy. I never made you do anything. You agreed to do it. Didn't have to! But you did. I put my terms up front, and you went through with it anyway. If you thought a hit was worth licking my boots for the scraps of what I'd give you, or doing the next dumb shit that I'd thought of on the spot, then that's on you. I'd say it was a fair exchange. You wanted to get in that bar in the first place, remember? You said thanks."

It's important to Rico that Deadlock knows that every single thing he did, was entirely his own doing.

He pauses, his eyes glinting.

"And just so you know," he continues, gaining cheerfulness and confidence. "It was ten hours, and I was laughing from the rooftop the whole time. I brought mimosas and a book."

Deadlock's eyes flash, narrowing his eyes, but he grins again. It looks nothing like the shaky smile the old Drift sometimes sported, though rarely in Rico's presence. It's confident, predatory, and absolutely uncaring.

"Oh, Rico," Deadlock breathes, staring him down, "that really doesn't help your case."

He braces his other hand on Rico's shoulder and pulls, and with a sharp crack he dislocates it. "Of course I agreed. Every time. I had nothing." It comes out a hiss. He hasn't let go of Rico's arm. "And you took advantage of that. Don't worry, Rico, you're not special. Plenty of people did. But despite all that orihalcon I managed not to fry my brain completely back there in the dead end. And I remember all of it."

He sees it coming, knows what's coming. But even then, Rico lets out a strangled yell of pain that he bites down on almost as soon as it leaves his mouth. Seething, he grinds his teeth together, breathing through the jolts of pain that burn his nerves like electricity.

"Don't you say that to my fucking face," Rico bites out. "I am exceptional. And you're going to wish that it did."

He's got one arm still working, hasn't he? He lets out a breathless laugh, and tries to slam his fist into Deadlock's stomach.

Hearing Rico in pain seems to animate something entirely new in Deadlock. His eyes gleam brighter and he laughs at the demon's indignation, at how ruffled he gets at something so simple and petty as you're not special. That laugh does get cut off when Rico's fist connects with his gut, a sharp intake of breath that turns into an angry hiss. It seems to do little more than temporarily steal his breath and piss him off.

"Is that really what bothers you?" Deadlock tugs mercilessly on the dislocated arm, just to see if he can get Rico to make a little more noise. "That you weren't the only bully who made cheap entertainment out of me? Did you really flatter yourself that much?"

Meanwhile, in the background, the other demons are having a hell of a time wreaking havoc on Rico's penthouse. But right now, Deadlock seems uncomfortably focused on its sole occupant. "I'll give you one thing, Rico. You do have a lot more toys to break than the rest of them."

Rico's upper body is tugged forward but he resists the motion every time, standing his ground like a really shitty game of tug-of-war. And every time he pulls back, he puts stress on his injury, little flares of warning sending straight to his brain, but he tells himself to ignore it. He's had much worse. Deadlock seems to be testing the waters for now, and what he's doing reminds him too much of his own habits - and there are a lot of ways this could get worse.

"It doesn't bother me," Rico says with a pinched expression and tight voice, trying to keep his breathing under control. He's going to have to do more than that to make him cry out again. He still has his pride left, even if sometimes that's all he has. "I just want you to remember that you owe me, punk. Nobody fucked with you in the same way that I did. Or helped you either."

And this time, he executes a perfect uppercut that rockets under Deadlock's jaw.

"Ugh -- "

The punch knocks Deadlock back, his grip on Rico's arm releasing as he staggers back into one of the other demons, who falls back onto the ground with a grunt, but Deadlock manages to stay on his feet. He rubs his jaw, rolling his neck until it gives a satisfying crack, and laughs.

"It does bother you." He is impossibly smug about this. But rather than run back and trade another blow with Rico, he stalks over in the direction of the entertainment center. Real nice TV you've got there, buddy. "Funny, though, I didn't realize I owed you anything for being humiliated in a fair exchange -- your words, not mine. What do you think I owe you, Rico? Go on, keep talking. I want to see if you're really that self-obsessed or just stupid."

Taking advantage of the break, Rico braces himself and shoves his shoulder back into place.

"Did you think anybody ever gave a shit about you?" he asks mildly, rotating his wrist and feeling out the range of motion. "Didn't have a friend in the world - or at least friends who didn't steal your shit to hock for drugs. I dropped in from time to time, made a little small talk, maybe some presents, made sure you were still kicking. Was anybody else so generous?"

If only because a corpse was so much less interesting.

"Remember that time I brought you to the Menton?"

Alright, more like kidnapped. He was in an excellent mood then, and thought that the perfect end to his day would be pissing off the waiters by bringing a homeless kid who smelled like he hadn't washed in days. He even gave him one of his jackets to cover up most of the filth. Sitting there, the absolute center of surreptitious attention and sidelong whispers, he'd ordered more food than they could possibly finish, and popped an eight hundred dollar bottle of wine. Feeling uncustomarily generous, Rico hadn't even mocked him that much that night either.

"I gave you a taste of what you could have, if you'd wanted badly enough. And look at you now!"

Rico is succeeding fantastically in pissing Deadlock off further. To Drift that was a disadvantage, an easy way to lose his grip and his footing, but to Deadlock, it's just what fuels him. He knows how to control and direct anger these days, enough to get the job done. And the more Rico talks, the more he dredges up painful, uncomfortable memories, the brighter Deadlock's eyes gleam brighter. He hates Rico, but there's something to revel in there, too -- it feels good to hate Rico, because he's scum, because he deserves it, and it's going to feel even better to beat the living hell out of him.

"Yeah," Deadlock says, his voice deceptively light as he holds out a hand to one of the other demons, "look at me now, Rico."

The demon hands him a baseball bat that he'd clearly brought along purely for the purpose of causing damage. Deadlock curls his fingers around the grip. Oh, he remembers the Menton. It didn't matter much that Rico had gone light on the mockery that evening -- the humiliation of being in public with that kind of attention focused on him was so, so much worse than the demon's usual taunting. There were pros and cons to being the sort of person that the general public made invisible by willful ignorance, but he would desperately have loved the ability to actually disappear that night. But he'd been paralyzed with embarrassment and resentment and low-key panic, and back then, he'd been afraid of Rico, too. None of those things are a concern anymore.

"Turns out that wasn't what I really wanted, though." Deadlock drags the baseball bat along the floor as he paces, slowly, his gaze panning around the room and looking utterly bored. "Sitting on my ass in high-end restaurants, ordering expensive shit just because? Having...all of this?" He waves the bat in a vague gesture around him. "No -- what I really wanted was so much closer in reach. It was right in front of me all along."

He flashes a nasty grin at Rico and gives the bat a home run swing -- directly into the smooth surface of Rico's massive flatscreen. It is so very satisfying.

"You never gave a shit about me, either, Rico, and don't insult me by pretending otherwise. I was just entertainment for you, a living plaything. And you know what? You didn't take particularly good care of your toys, so now we're just gonna have to take away the rest of them."

And on cue, the other demons start tearing into Rico's apartment. Anything on the walls or an open surface gets torn down, knocked to the floor, broken into pieces. Deadlock just grins again and drives the baseball bat clean through the TV.

Rico actually roars with rage at the shattering of his flatscreen. There's too fucking much going on right now, he can't be in every place at once. His artwork. His porcelain. His sound systems. He needs to save all of it.

No. What the fuck is he doing? He needs to compartmentalize. Lets get back to the basics.

This happens extremely fast.

He snatches up the last remaining glass, and takes a running leap towards the demon trashing his coffee table. Fuck it, it's worthless without the whole set anyway. Rico smashes it across his face in an explosion of shards, and he drops like a sack of bricks. Snatching up the largest splinter, he shreds a strip from his bathrobe and wraps it tight around his fist. Holding the makeshift shiv in one hand and yanking the demon's head back with the other, Rico skewers it through his eye in one quick motion and pulls it back out again.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want with what's mine!" he screams, his hand still fisted in the demon's hair, voice ragged and dark. "You think I won't hunt you down? Come and get a fucking taste, punks!"

This isn't the Rico sitting indolent in his Jacuzzi. This is a reflection of his former self, all constrained violence and motions learned when he was just a human patrolling the streets for demons, and then later when he'd clawed his way from the bottom of the pit, proving himself stronger, better. It's exactly a reminder of why Rico is dangerous in the first place.

Deadlock's eyes widen, but not in apprehension. Oh, this is good. He's never seen Rico in such a state, not like this. There's something incredibly satisfying about seeing him pushed over the edge like this, throwing a fucking tantrum over a few little things. It's just the kind of shit money buys. He could just buy it again.

He doesn't seem all that rankled at his cohort's death, although the other two demons are on guard now, watching Rico with sharp, alert eyes. It's still just one against three -- the confidence in the room isn't lost. Deadlock lets out an honest-to-God laugh, eyes glittering. This makes a far more interesting fight.

"Thought you'd never ask," he says, and draws a massive fucking sword from the sheath on his back. It looks like the kind of sword that'd be forged by a demon, all cruel curves and hooks and a hexagram thrown over the hilt, and as he closes both hands around the hilt, dark energy begins to spark and crackle along the length of the blade. He leaps toward Rico, sword held aloft. This is gonna hurt.

Fuck, he wants his boot knife. The one with the utilitarian straight edge, or better yet his gun. Not this shitty, jagged stick of glass that's not going to hold up in any meaningful way.

This is going to hurt so fucking bad, but Rico's never been afraid of pain. But then again, he was never particularly eager to embrace it either. If only because it'd meant he'd made a mistake, wasn't the best.

No choice. Either then, or now.

He hurls the jagged glass shard like a javelin towards one of the demons's throats on the side with precise eyes and eternally steady aim. That useless thing was a liability now, more likely to shatter in his hand. And then he does the unexpected thing and throws himself towards Deadlock, rolling to the ground. One of the hooks near the tip catch in his back, latching in and tearing out its morsel of flesh, with a sting and cackle of ozone. Was he toying with him?

"Nobody would have remembered you! You didn't exist without me!"

His back muscles seizing and teeth grinding, jaw working to not let out a sound, he stumbles for a brief second before he snatches up the discarded baseball bat and ducks towards the others with a snarl of concentration, hoping that the massive sword would be hampered with more bodies in the way.

Deadlock knows Rico stands a good chance against the other demons. This level of rage might make him enough of a match for the both of them. But Deadlock isn't worried. He knows he's stronger than Rico. He skids to a halt as Rico rolls right past him, standing up straight and rolling his shoulders.

"Your ego really can't stand that, can it? The fact that you're not solely responsible for my continued existence." This is hilarious. Deadlock watches one of the demons throw a heavy punch at Rico, the energy around the sword steadily thrumming louder. "I knew you liked to take things that aren't yours, Rico, but I didn't think you'd be so desperate to take credit."

It hurts what he has left of a heart to see his things lying on the floor, shattered and broken. The injury in his back flares up at just the wrong moment, and he's clipped by the punch even as he slams the baseball bat into the demon's head (the one who tore down the Kandinsky, fuck them all, fuck demons they can all rot, did they even know how priceless and one of a kind that was?), it splinters on the demon's tough skin with a massive crack, but at least it makes him back off.

He's offended. Betrayed, in the same way if the stray mutt you'd been throwing scraps to every week on your way back home suddenly turned on you. Angry at his ingratitude. And faintly stung, as if he could remember what that felt like anymore.

Rico turns around to Deadlock like a challenge, swinging what's left of the bat in circles by his side. This new length feels more natural to wield anyway.

"You heard me, mutt. You owe me everything!"

And then, in a display of almost suicidal overconfidence, he charges at Deadlock.

It's funny -- it really is. The more riled up Rico gets, the more amused Deadlock is. Funny how things have changed. He grins ruthlessly, watching Rico take out his rage on the other demons, the way he seems to absolutely boil over when he's dismissed. Deadlock laughs.

"The only thing I owe you, Rico, is a world of pain."

Rico charges at him, and Deadlock could easily cut him down if he wanted, cleave that awful little human body in two and send Rico packing back to hell. But he doesn't. Instead, he takes advantage of Rico's headlong rush and feints, moving as though he's bracing for impact -- but then he steps to the side and brings his sword down to cut the baseball bat in half instead, then drives the hilt of his sword into Rico's temple. It's not a gentle blow.

He has just enough time to register the bat breaking with an explosion of splinters before he's on the ground.

This is why I used to wear stupid helmets, Rico thinks, dazed. He rolls over to his front and retches up spittle on his nice carpet, hand coming up to check for blood. Of course there is. Rico is suddenly all too unpleasantly aware of the fragilities of his human body.

"My face..." he bites out, but he has a feeling his voice isn't as strong as he'd like it to be past the ringing in his ears. "...Better not have broken my nose."

Deadlock laughs, laughs like that's the funniest goddamn thing he's heard all day, and grabs Rico by the back of the neck to haul him up before he can get on his feet himself.

"Didn't I?" He grins at Rico with a mouthful of sharp teeth. He didn't used to have such sharp teeth. "Guess not. Let me fix that."

He doesn't need to bash Rico in the face with the hilt of his sword to break his nose, a simple punch would've done, but that wouldn't be as fun.

One second he's looking down at the threads of his Persian rug - he's gotta take that to the dry cleaners, that better fucking come out - the next he's looking at a mouthful of teeth, curled up in a grin. Alright, he's starting to realise why people hate Rico smiling so much. He doesn't appreciate being hauled around like a puppy. He reaches up to to pry at Deadlock's grip, but it comes out as an uncoordinated scrabble of his blunt fingernails instead.

Being held at his mercy is almost preferable to realising that his face is likely a complete mess. Kudos to him, the first thing he does is feel for his nose and try to reset it.

"The fuck is with your f-fancy new sword, huh?" Rico slurs. "Ugly piece a' shit."

"What, this? Jealous, Rico?" Deadlock doesn't bother batting Rico's hand away; he's a mess right now. But Deadlock's far from finished. "You just don't like it when other people have nice toys, do you? You have to convince yourself anything of anyone else's is shit, just because you can't stand the thought that it's not yours."

He finally tosses Rico back to the floor like a discarded doll, holding his sword out as though on display for Rico's benefit. "Apparently it belonged to my dad. Never really knew the guy, but I guess I got an inheritance out of him anyway." He grins viciously. "And I didn't even have to suffer for it."

Rico skids and half-rolls across the floor, coming to a stop against the splintered remains of his coffee table. This glass damn well stings, and he slams his palm down on the ground, heaving his upper chest up off the ground.

"Fuck you. I know ugly when I see it," Rico snarls, but it comes out raspy. "That's something even I wouldn't take from your corpse."

The gleam of the sword reflects something strange in Rico's eyes. Could it be fear, buried deeply beneath everything? Or perhaps covetousness?

"Well at least he left that. After h-he left you. Years on the street, but you got a shitty slab of metal for it."

Deadlock is watching his every move like a predator, sizing up that look in Rico's eyes. Fear is satisfying, but so is the resentment and the humiliation. He's sure he can inspire more before he's through with Rico -- and Deadlock will leave him intact when this night is over, leave him to sit and stew in it.

"Trying for the daddy issues, Rico? Really? That's low-hanging fruit, even for you." He doesn't seem wounded at all, just endlessly, derisively entertained. "My dad was long gone by the time I could've even remembered him. He wasn't the one who put me on the street."

It had been his mother's death that had done that. Not something he would have shared with Rico -- or anyone, for that matter, even at his lowest in the dead end. Even now, he doesn't blame her. It was never her fault. Culpability for many other things, however, could be easily placed on Rico's head. Deadlock extends his sword arm out again, pointing it abruptly at Rico's head.

"It might've belonged to my dad, but this sword was a gift to me from Megatron. And really, if I've got anyone to thank for keeping me alive, it's not you -- it's him."

This is reminding him a little too much of his training sessions. He pushes off the ground, forcing himself to his knees but dips to the side, dizzy. He catches himself, his other hand curling into a fist. He stumbles to his feet, chin ducked down and facing the sword edge head on.

"I left you water!" Rico rages. "When you were sick, I woke you up! Gave you shoes, clothing, medicine, drugs - what the fuck else do you want?"

So maybe it wasn't necessary to bang on the windows every time he saw him falling asleep that night. And gossip incessantly on his windowsill about his latest escapade to distract him from his withdrawal. But you weren't supposed to let them sleep in case they didn't wake up, right? Hell, he even brought him chicken soup. He never does that.

"So you finally want more. At least I instilled that in you." Rico grins, though there's a decidedly unamused edge to it. He'll take credit for that, even as he's being beaten into the ground for it. "Megatron. Really? That uptight tyrant?"

[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

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