Go to Hell
It’s fun to learn things about your friends, isn’t it? Especially when it’s something you can use against them.
I don’t play a lot of video games, but Monster Prom is absolutely one of my favorites; my partner and I played the crap out of it last year and are so excited for the next game. My piece will feature datable characters Damien and Scott as well as playable character Brian (sweet zombie child).
SFW. Potential warnings: swearing, extremist humor. Monster Prom tickle fic.
Word count: 5,267
~*~
A werewolf, a demon, and a zombie walked blindfolded into Hell. Brian didn’t know the punchline of that joke, but he was hopeful, mostly because he was in the joke.
Spooky High students had been debating for years on what Hell was actually like. The living among the academia had their theories, the undead had their speculations based on weird dreams and flashes of possible memories, the demons hypothesized from part-time work experience (in internships and desk jobs, which, they argued, couldn’t possibly reflect the entire horror of the realm), and the otherworldly beings who might have had a clue hadn’t been there in so long that, they insisted, Hell had probably gone through a lot of changes (as many as a monarchy of blood and shifting hands will change in a millennia). That left just one student to shed light on the debacle: the prince of the sinners’ realm himself, Damien LaVey. And Damien wasn’t one to ‘shed light’ on anything, unless it was via the blazing remains of some building he’d vandalized and burned. Needless to say, he also relished the suffering, even in such a small matter, of his peers, so refuting to tell them anything about his home realm was one of his most effortless torture methods—not as fun as mutilation or arson, in his opinion, but easy.
So Damien was no help, but his two current companions, Scott and Brian, were soon to have insight that Damien had kept hidden. Midterms had left everyone in high spirits, and, where many of the students had opted to get wasted and crash the Killer Robot Zombie Frogs concert that weekend, Damien, in the mood for a lazier revelry and having “borrowed” some of Polly’s latest chemical brew, had approached the two people he “tolerated most”—“That means we’re his best friends!” Scott had declared, his tail wagging—with an offer of an overnight movie marathon at his place. Scott has grown up in a wooded cabin and Brian literally slept in his grave, so the prospect of spending a weekend in the home of their royal friend, even in Hell, sounded exciting, at the very least. Albeit, for their own safety, the werewolf and zombie guests didn’t see much of Hell; demons’ eyes worked differently, according to Damien, who had explained while blindfolding the pair. Hell’s inhabitants, by purposefully torturous intent, would have their eyes slowly melted from their sockets by the over-saturated red color of the realm. Damien had chuckled, “Hard to watch a movie with no eyes.”
Hard to walk with no eyes, too, especially through the twisted, craggy entrance to Hell’s palace, even from where Damien teleported them nearby. He was a good guide, though, just messing with his fellows a few times and only nearly letting them fall into the Pit of Eternal Punishment that spanned the castle like a moat. Classic.
Brian shambled close to Scott as the trio entered through the ancient wooden doorway the led to the throne room. The whole atmosphere of the realm was giving Brian a headache, like the stinging sensation of a brain freeze he hadn’t thought he could experience with no working organs. Like the fear he felt giving a speech in class and knowing his stuttering grunts and groans would make his voice even more incomprehensible. Standing near to Scott’s massive warmth offered some comfort of familiarity, even if the lycanthrope’s fur was standing on edge; he could feel the weight in the air, too. Although, to Scott, the heaviness clung in his brain as the anxiety of an itch he couldn’t determine the location of, despite the drive he had to find that itch and claw at it even until his skin had been torn away. He shook his head rapidly and whined.
The thickness of their ugly thoughts grew as they approached the rulers of the realm where they sat in regal malevolence. Brian wondered for a moment if Damien was feeling similar anxieties to himself and Scott, and if that was why he felt so much pressure from his dads. Maybe it was a feeling one could never get used to; Brian was sure he could feel several pairs of eyes boring into him—what if they hated him and tossed him into the Pit? was he even facing the right direction?—and making him feel infinitesimal.
Damien cleared his throat, the sound causing both Brian and Scott to jerk at attention—even so little, the voice of a friend was uplifting, especially when it emanated from before them, its owner a shield from unseen terrors. “Kings of Hell,” he boomed, his voice reverberating through the chamber that Scott could smell was tastefully decorated with charred skeletons, “Lords of the Underworlds, Tormentors of Souls, Devourers of only the Choicest Virgin Sacrifices—”
Brian and Scott tried to hide their startled chuckles—Brian by coughing and Scott by shoving his face into Brian’s shoulder—but one of Damien’s dads laughed openly. “Is that what you’ve brought, then?” the king asked, his guffaws like thunder that made pillars shake and the floor crack. “Some choice virgins?”
Oh, shit, thought Brian, trying to nonchalantly stand behind Scott at both the implication and imminent danger of the king’s humor.
The other king chuffed and silenced his partner before addressing their son. “Damien, you sing such high praise to us, it seems as though you miss us enough to visit more. Don’t you think?”
Damien snorted. “Yeah, right.” He must have received some ‘on with it’ gesture, the wind of which nearly bowled over the blindfolded duo, because he reassumed his presenter’s voice. “Fathers of... Me,” Damien dropped back to stand beside the other students, “these are my...” He faltered, then sighed, regrouping. “These are my friends, Scott Howl and Brian Yu. I pray they will find favor with you.”
The first king laughed again, and Brian was grateful to have steadier footing with Damien unconsciously planting a firm hand on his back. “Pray! He prays!”
“Welcome to Hell,” said the second king amicably as his husband’s mirth mellowed. “Help yourselves to whatever you like or may need; Damien knows where everything is. And,” the sly smile was evident in his tone, “let us know if Damien doesn’t treat you well. He hasn’t visited the rack enough recently.”
“Dad,” Damien groaned, undoubtedly turning redder as his father again busted a gut. The trio was dismissed, and Damien quickly herded Scott and Brian away from the throne room and deeper into the castle.
“Can we take our blindfolds off yet?” asked Scott, his ears twitching excitedly.
“Not yet, ass clowns,” replied Damien, affectionately derivative as ever.
“Alright!” Scott leaned over to whisper none too softly to Brian, “Told you! Even Damien said we were friends!”
“So you wouldn’t be burned alive or swallowed whole, fur-for-brains!” Damien growled, his embarrassment plain in the fiery heat his body let off and nearly seared into the back of Brian and Scott’s jackets. He added, hissing, “You better not tell anyone about that, okay?”
“Sure, Damien!” Scott agreed. Brian nodded his assent.
The demon let out a huff of a sigh. “Good.”
A few minutes of expansive hallways and sharply descending staircases later—that, Brian could discern; apparently, everything was bigger in Hell—Damien ushered Brian and Scott through a door and into a room that severely darkened the view behind Brian’s blindfold.
“Alright,” said Damien, kicking the door shut with his heel to produce a satisfying thud, “safe as you’re gonna get. But, I mean, you can keep your blindfolds on if you want. Weirdos.”
The blindfold was Brian’s least weird feature at present, but he still removed it as invited; Scott followed suit. When their eyes adjusted to the dim light, both monsters gaped, Scott uttering a low whistle and Brian juggling his jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. Either the entire castle was much more modern than Brian had been imagining, or Damien’s quarters had been renovated. The zombie assumed the latter, guessing a realm entirely devoted to punishment wouldn’t have much need for such an intimate torture chamber; the wall-mounted torches and shackle doorway curtain to the next unseen room could have supported his theory or been for aesthetic. The room was still red, albeit a less eye-f*cking and more pleasant shade of burnt sienna. It was more of a lounge than a bedroom, too. The bed stood at their left, bearing a classic orange and yellow flame on black pattern—that Brian would not have been surprised to see actually catch fire—and nestled between a mahogany armoire and a similarly colored bookcase overflowing with literature, cases for films and video games, and consoles collected over decades with wires passionately intertwined; meanwhile, on their right, the floor dropped down a few feet, the edge cradled by a dark wraparound sofa and facing a television, a mound of pillows, and a wall of windows, their curtains hospitably drawn.
Except, not every curtain. Scott and Brian winced and averted their eyes, almost simultaneously having caught a glimpse of the searing outside through the exposed glass.
Swearing under his breath, Damien kicked his shoes off and brushed past the other monsters toward the offending window. “Told them to keep them shut, but someone thinks their smarter than me and goes and-” His tirade ceased when the room was properly darkened, and he chuckled. “Least I won’t be on the rack, seeing as it will be occupied.” Hearing no response to his joke, Damien turned to Scott and Brian, who were still rubbing their temples and quelling their ugly thoughts. “Pull up some cute cat videos on your phones,” Damien said, making the chain curtain jangle as he slipped into the other room. “It’ll help with the headaches.”
Scott pulled out his phone—with the intent to search for puppy videos rather than cat videos, thank you very much—and opened a browser. “Wow, really good service.”
“Yeah,” Damien called. “I don’t have to suffer. That’s why I painted my room—so it wouldn’t suck ass like the rest of this place.” He poked his head through the curtain, and Brian smothered a smile as Damien’s unbroken horn definitely didn’t almost get stuck in one of the metal loops. “Kitchen’s here,” he knocked with the side of his fist on the wall, indicating the room his torso emerged from, “You’re welcome to whatever. Bathroom’s straight across the hall; you’ll have to shut your eyes to get there, but you’ll be fine once you’re inside.” He was about to return to the kitchen, but he turned to flash a feral grin at his guests. “Just make sure you don’t wander down the hall by accident, or you’ll end up in the tiger pit.”
Scott opened his mouth as Damien left, his silence enough to ask if the warning had been in jest or not, but Brian could offer no more eloquent answer and shrugged. Best not to wander around in Hell.
Hell’s kitchen was popping—literally, audibly popping; Damien must have begun making popcorn. “Alright, noobs!” he declared, leaving the popcorn to cook and sliding into the main room, “get ready for the most badass movie marathon ever!” Spurred by Scott’s whoops and Brian’s enthusiastic fist pump, Damien dashed to his bookshelf, flinging cases over his shoulders and onto his bed haphazardly. “We’ve got Die Hard, we’ve got Jaws, we’ve got Predator, Lord of the Rings, Deadpool, Shawshank, and we have got-”
“Homeward Bound?” Scott asked, despite the film Damien had last thrown down to clearly be Rambo.
Damien lost no traction. “And we most f*cking certainly have Homeward Bound! We’ll just have to stream it.”
Tail wagging, Scott let out a celebratory howl, at which Damien chuckled. “We break into the movies only once pajama armor has been donned and I’ve mixed some drinks. Brian, I know have some brains in my fridge I could blend; any idea or preference of what goes well with that?”
“Gin, absinthe, orange and lemon, I think,” Brian signed thoughtfully. Brains went well with everything, in his humble opinion.
Damien blinked, then snorted. “Did you just ask me for a Corpse Reviver?”
Brian grinned. He liked his irony drinkable.
“Alright, one Corpse Reviver #2 for the corpse. Scott, what do you want? If we’re on theme—Hair of the Dog?”
“Damien,” Scott said seriously, “I happily drink toilet water; you could give me any drink, and I would enjoy it, mostly because I knew I came from you.”
The demon rolled his eyes at Scott’s praise, the sentiment making his stomach keel even as his cheeks grew hot. “Shut up. Three Corpse Revivers, then,” Damien decided, “and I’ll make sure one of them is inundated with rat poison. Not gonna tell you which one, but it’ll be one of them.”
It was Brian’s. He didn’t mind, though; poison did little for him, but it didn’t taste all that bad. He nursed the drink through the first leg of the movie marathon, sipping carefully so as to avoid spilling on the t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms Scott had loaned him. The generous werewolf lay on the carpet, spooning a pillow and beaming at the television as it played sweeping piano music over scenes of dogs and cats running across fields. Damien sat on the couch behind Scott, and Brian lounged midway between them, on the floor and leaning against the sofa. The demon’s legs were thus assuaged from all sides, Scott’s happy tail batting against Damien’s shins and the zombie’s head resting against his knee. Damien’s cheeks were warm, but he blamed that on the alcohol more than the closeness. Brian’s cheeks were flushed, too (as much as they could be), and he knew it was from the closeness. Not with Scott—Scott, lovable and daft, had little understanding of the concept of personal space, and those who were friends with him expected sloppy wolf kisses and bone-crushing hugs when interacting with him (which many of them pretended to hate but never pulled away from)—but with Damien, who Brian had to resist stealing glances at. Brian’s heart had long gone silent, but Damien—whose scarlet skin had flickered under the light of rainbow flames during a recreational takeover of the high school chemistry lab, whose teeth gleamed in wicked cachinnation when his prank resulted in the entire gym catching fire during the homecoming basketball game, whose golden eyes had sparkled lazily as he blew smoky shapes from the auditorium catwalk—Damien made Brian’s heart feel like it was the bass drum of a symphonic orchestra.
Brian’s daydreaming fizzled to a halt when Damien stood up halfway through the credits of Homeward Bound, taking his criminally comfy knee with him. “My turn to pick,” said the demon, stepping over Scott to kneel before the entertainment center. He yawned as he took the ejected disc from the DVD player, his sharp teeth making him look more like a sleepy kitten that the dangerous persona he usually put on would ever allow him to be. “Need something with a f*ck ton of explosions to wake me up.”
Scott, who had been until that moment nearly sleeping with his face in the empty popcorn bowl, suddenly lifted his head, indignant. “Damien! You think Homeward Bound is boring!?”
The reply Damien gave was a noncommittal noise. Brian hid a chuckle in his arm both at said noise and the look of pure shock Scott wore. Shock that quickly turned to mischief.
“I’ll wake you up!” Scott growled, playfully pouncing on the demon.
Quick as a flash, Damien had turned in anticipation of the attack, bracing himself with hands extended. So, when the werewolf barreled into him, the pair rolled over with Damien ending up on top, his hands latched onto Scott’s sides and his grin villainous.
Head tipped back with a sleepy smile, Brian wondered for the briefest moment who would win if Damien and Scott actually fought. Scott was strong, and Damien was wild, and they were both powerful. Still, Brian couldn’t even imagine the two good friends trying to hurt each other. Hence why the scene before him—Damien tickling poor Scott to pieces—was not surprising but unbearably sweet, especially for how little silly affection Brian had ever seen Damien take part in, let alone dole out.
“No, Damien! These aren’t the kind of belly rubs werewolves like!” Scott chortled, tail thumping against the carpet in rapid wagging and feet kicking as he flailed to grab Damien’s hands. Unconcerned, Damien’s fingers only scribbled faster, one hand just under Scott’s ribs and the other zeroed in on his navel, really making Brian howl. “Brian, help!”
Brian blinked; he’d gotten so used to getting called in to mediate his classmates’ shenanigans, but maybe now would be the time to pick a side, and perhaps get even closer to Damien in the process.
> Scott can handle this! Besides, it’s a great view watching these two hunks wrestle.
> Help Scott.
Brian wasn’t terribly gifted in the ‘speed’ category. Luckily, Damien was too caught up in digging his fingers into Scott’s ribs and chuckling maniacally to take note of a slow-moving new attacker. Okay. Brian could fight fire with fire, metaphorically and a little literally. And it would either end up with him getting his spine ripped out and the rest of him tossed into the Pit of Eternal Punishment, or it would be so adorable that Brian’s barely-beating heart would explode. Meh. Things had gone worse for him; his school was weird. With all the boldness he could muster, Brian struck, jamming his hands beneath Damien’s armpits and scribbling his fingers like mad.
Immediately, the demon’s laughter was cut off with a yelp, only to shift to mad cackling as he thrashed at the touch. He thrashed so hard, in fact, that he wrenched himself off Scott and away from Brian—away from Brian, but not from Brian’s hands. Zombies, of course, had the neat little quirks of having decomposing bodies, so their limbs could be coaxed off pretty easily. When Damien moved one way, Brian simply let the bones, muscles, ligaments, and other fleshy bits of his wrists tear. So Brian stayed put, but his hands, now cleanly detached but still scribbling, followed Damien, who had now sprawled onto his back and was now shrieking expletives.
“Thanks,” Scott said, sitting up with a smile and a hand on his chest as his own laughter receded. “Any longer, I think I would have peed myself.”
The werewolf and the zombie watched, amused and transfixed, by the sight of Damien LaVey writhing on the floor in ticklish agony, stuck between lifting his arms to try and dislodge the attacking hands or keep his arms clamped to his sides to keep those hands from targeting anywhere else. His grin was wide, head thrown back, and laugh booming but not nefarious as usual—it was a softer sound, lighter and higher and sweeter than any laugh Brian had ever heard from Damien. Focus, Brian, the undead student chided himself. Get too caught up, and Damien will be loose and hungry for vengeance.
“Think you can keep him down while I use the little wolf’s room?” Scott asked, standing.
Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Brian nodded in reply.
“Cool,” Scott said. “If he gets loose, scream loud or throw something heavy so I know to come help.” As Brian rolled his eyes, Scott added, “And if I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, please come save me from the tiger pit, since that’s probably where I’ll have ended up. I normally like all fuzzy animals, but Hell kitties might not be as friendly as normal kitties.”
With that, Scott excused himself from the situation, leaving Brian to his work. It was certainly work Brian could enjoy, sitting back and only focusing on letting his hands keep his crush in stitches. Damien’s tail lashed as Brian dug his thumbs purposefully into the demon’s upper ribs, his fingers were still trapped and wiggling. Leaning over to sip some of his Corpse Reviver through its straw, Brian enjoyed the view. Maybe this little power trip was making him too bold, because, he figured, since it had been revealed that Damien, Prince of Hell, was ticklish, Brian would be crazy to not search for more sensitive spots, even if just to keep the knowledge to himself. Brian wormed his detached hands free from Damien’s underarms, setting them squeezing down the demon’s sides and to his hips.
It took a few seconds for Damien to realize the tickling sensation had moved, but, once it was no longer pinned to his body, he reared up, swatted Brian’s hands away, and leapt to his feet, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with a glower.
Brian knew he wasn’t fast enough to escape the revenge promised in Damien’s shining eyes, so he sat frozen, a deer in the headlights, as Damien stalked over to him.
“You think that was funny?!” Damien demanded, though his smile hadn’t quite receded and his eyes were sparkling with something other than vengeance, something softer and far more playful.
Unable to help himself, Brian snickered at the question, shrugging.
“Let’s see how funny you think it is,” Damien leered, his grin positively diabolical, as he plopped himself down on Brian’s lap, effectively pinning his legs, “after you’ve had a turn.”
Now, to burst some bubbles, zombies usually weren’t very responsive to tactile stimuli. No flinching at the brush of fire to their fingers, no sighing at the whisper of grass under their feet, no laughing at the tickling of claws on their ribs. This was… mostly true for Brian. His undead nervous system was sort of selective, and he wasn’t sure how. He never felt the bite of fire, just the warmth. Cold wind was a kiss to his cheek, and a pencil through his hand—his school was so weird—was more like a pinch to his skin. Sometimes he felt things in their entirety, sometimes just in essence, depending on how awake and engaged he was in a given situation. So, alcohol making his blood tingle, the softness of the carpet beneath his back, the warmth of Damien’s hands snaking under his shirt—Brian felt all of it.
Damien gave him no preamble either; one second, his hands were sliding under Brian’s shirt—adding yet another factor to get Brian’s heart kick-drumming—the next, his nails were wreaking havoc on Brian’s stomach and sides. Brian wished so badly that he had his hands back so he could cover his mouth, one side ever-toothy under torn flesh and the other side gaping in a grin that nearly split his cheeks. If not cover his mouth, then at least stifle his laugh, which was all breathy snorts and chuffs and grunts—nowhere near as cute as Damien’s.
Damien. Shit. So close to Brian now and all but holding him as he scratched wheezing laughter out from Brian’s ribs. It tickled like hell, sure (ha), but it was also sweet somehow? Brian was probably thinking too hard for the lack of oxygen currently getting to his brain.
“And look who’s down a few hands to defend himself!” Damien chuckled, able to ignore the flush in his own cheeks seeing Brian’s burn so cutely. Hair mussed, smile wide, body so close and warm, Damien wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted more to… Damn these f*cking feelingsssssss.
He was mercifully spared from thinking upon hearing the noise Brian made—a new noise, and a very un-Brian-like one. Damien thought his own laugh suited him, raucous and cursing and wild; he hadn’t expected something like that from Brian, who spoke rarely and hummed more than laughed when something tickled his funny bone. But that noise, the one Brian had made when Damien skittered his fingers just so on the zombie’s waistline, that had been a chirp. Had anyone else made that noise, Damien would have lorded it over them for-f*cking-ever. But not Brian, Damien’s cantering heart insisted. That chirp, that smile, this Brian—they were all his. And he thought Brian tickling him had taken his breath away.
Damien played with the chirp spot for a while longer, finding that slowing his touch and even just skimming his nails over it made Brian buck weakly. Savoring the warmth for just a moment longer, Damien gave Brian’s sides a pat and let his hands withdraw with a sigh. Then he grinned, watching Brian’s drooping but happy eyes and tired smile. “You son of a bitch, you’re still proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
Brian nodded.
“Fine,” Damien rolled his eyes, realizing where he was seated and trying to be nonchalant as he removed himself from Brian’s lap to sit just beside him. “But this stays between the two of us. And I mean the two of us; Scott’s probably dead by now.”
At that, Brian snorted. (Across the room, his phone buzzed with a text from a very not dead Scott, but neither the demon nor the zombie had it in them to journey all the way over and check the message.)
“Oh, yeah,” Damien said, clearing his throat and retrieving Brian’s hands from the floor.
Brian had been mortified enough at the grin Damien had worn upon discovering the spot on his waist; he was sure the demon would literally tease him to death if he saw the was Brian’s hands had been spasming in the background during that ordeal, still tethered to Brian’s reactions and reflexives even if not to his body. He did have to chuckle when his brain gasped internally, ‘Damien’s holding my hand.’
Damien raised an eyebrow and smirked. “One of my hands didn’t get stuck under your shirt, did it?”
If Brian hadn’t been so flustered and exhausted, he probably would have replied, quiet but flirtatious, “No, but you’re welcome any time.” Instead, he grunted his thanks as Damien set the hands in Brian’s lap. The zombie arranged them in the proper order and hovered his wrists over the point of detachment. As easily as zombie limbs came off, they could be just as neatly reattached with a little home-brew magic. Vicky, his friend and fellow frequent limb-loser, appreciated his methods of reattachment, and had once offered to use her expertise to sew a limb back on for him if he magicked one back on for her. He had agreed to the deal, but still quietly preferred his own tactics, the use of old undead spells that didn’t mind mumbling or stuttering. Within a moment, his hands were reattached with a faint glow of a flash, the ancient magic sweet and fading upon his lips.
“Woah…”
A little embarrassed being observed doing magic as well as overall embarrassed from the past ten minutes, Brian glanced at Damien, seeing his transfixed eyes and curiously tilted head, before looking away. “Mm?”
Damien scooted imperceptibly closer, eyes on Brian’s hands. “What class did you learn that spell in? I’ve never felt magic that… gentle.”
Sure his voice would fail him and now equipped with his hands once again, Brian signed in reply, “It’s… I guess it’s family magic. Zombies have a habit of losing body parts.”
“Huh. Makes sense.” Damien shifted, facing Brian with bright eyes. “What else can you do?”
Brian twiddled his thumbs thoughtfully. “You can make fire, right?”
“Duh,” Damien repelled with a scoff, demonstrating by holding out his hand and, with a spark, letting crimson and magenta tongues of fire bloom from his palm.
Reviving the magic, Brian closed his eyes and whispered softly. The power bubbled up in the back of his throat, lovely and irresistible as laughter had been when Damien had played his ribs like a banjo. Swelling from his core and spreading to the farthest reaches of his nerve endings, making his left hand, for that was where his focus was trained, spark with a gentle light. The fingers of his now luminescent hand dipped into the edges of Damien’s fire; only when Brian glanced up to see Damien’s eyes transfixed on him—and had blushed furiously at the eye contact—did Brian slip his hand into the flames.
Warm.
Warm, the fire as it caressed Brian’s fingers and rose with kaleidoscopic vibrancy past his skin, a new rainbow of burning colors. Warm, Damien’s eyes, transfixed by the rainbow. Warm, Brian’s ears as his gaze rested on Damien’s flame-glowing features.
“Woah,” Damien breathed.
“Not the most useful,” Brian signed, withdrawing his hand but remaining near. “But,” Brian’s eyes flicked to Damien’s, then looked down with a shy clearing of his throat, “pretty.”
Damien scoffed, cheeks burning as he extinguished the flames in his hand. “What else you got?”
Seized with courage unprecedented before that night, Brian rubbed the back of his neck and replied coyly, “Well, I suppose I could show you... nah, you don’t wanna see that.”
“Don’t hold back on me, brain-breath,” Damien rolled his eyes. “Whatcha got?”
“Well, I wouldn’t wanna put you out...”
The demon shifted to sit fully toward Brian, grin challenging. “You think I’m gonna puss out? Come on.”
Brian did his best to keep a smile from growing at how easy Damien was to bait. Either this goes exceptionally well, or I’ll be the next one to visit the rack. He sighed in mock resignation. “I can only do the magic if you kiss me.”
Damien’s grin vanished, and his eyes went wide. He tried to recover, smirking unsteadily. “You’re bullshitting me.”
Brian shook his head, matching Damien’s wobbly smirk with a toothy grin of his own.
With a fierce blush and bright eyes, Damien growled, “Fine.”
The zombie was floored, first at the fact that Damien hadn’t shot down the invitation to kiss, and second at the kiss itself. Brian had expected a peck on the lips, but, by his own admission, Damien was not one to puss out. Had it not been for him already leaning against the couch, Brian would have been knocked over with the kiss Damien gave him, forceful and strong yet heart-wrenchingly tender. Warm, warm hands cupping Brian’s face and sharp teeth holding his lower lip-
Brian, FOCUS. He would have loved to get dizzyingly lost kissing Damien all night, but he’d set up a magic trick and he needed to follow through. Of course, few spells had such silly conditions as needing to be kissed for them to work, and the spell Brian chose to mentally utter was not one of them. But what kind of self-deprivation would he have suffered not making an opportunity to kiss his crush? None now, that was for sure.
The pair were nearly horizontal by the time Brian had collected himself enough to think the spell to completion, nearly having to push Damien off of him, to let both of them breathe and to finish the show. Damien watched, a little dazed and a little awed, as a sunflower blossomed from Brian’s open mouth. The zombie clipped the stem of the bloom with his teeth and, with a chuckle, tucked the flower behind Damien’s broken horn. “Ta-da.”
Damien snorted, face redder than he’d ever felt it but with none of his usual instinct to hide it. It was just warm. “And here I almost thought you were just baiting me into kissing you.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“And it took you long enough.” Damien grinned. “Does it work like a gumball machine? Do I get a flower every time I kiss you?”
Brian mirrored the smile, drawing Damien in close once more. “Why don’t you find out?”
