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thetravelerwrites · 4 years

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Ichabod (Part 2) Lemon

Rating: Explicit Relationships: Female Human/Male Demon-Fae Additional Tags: Exophilia, Demon, Fae Content Warnings: Multiple Sclerosis, Muscle Spasms, Temporary Paralysis, Wheelchair, Mobility Aids, Blood, Menstruation, Period, Oral Sex, Oral Sex During Menstruation Words: 4353

Commission by @littlemissmonsterfan, Ichabod sneaks into the convent after hours to explain himself to Ellis. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

“Where’s the doctor?” Liana asked as she returned with the water.

“Oh…” You said, still in a bit of a daze. “He began feeling ill and left.”

“Tch,” Liana tutted. “Well, perhaps it’s for the best. That man gives me the creeps.” She looked at your face closely. “You’re rather pale. Are you alright?” She set the pan down and took your chin. “Did he do something?”

“No, no,” You said weakly. “I’m fine. Honestly, I am a little worried about him. He did seem quite unwell.”

“Well, he’s a doctor,” She said dismissively. “If he is ill, then he knows what to do about it. Now let’s get you into some proper clothing. It’s bound to get colder.”

That night, you had trouble sleeping. The crackling coals in the hearth kept the chill from the room, though your feet and hands never seemed to warm up. You monthly bleeding did indeed begin that day, and the cramping always kept you awake. Ichabod’s medicine helped, but your thoughts were in a roil. All you could think about was what Ichabod had done: the kiss on your ankle. Even now, the skin where his lips had been still tingled.

Why had he done it, and why couldn’t you get it out of your mind? It’s true that no other man had shown you such interest, but then again, you hadn’t met but three men in your entire life. Was he taking advantage of the situation, like the Daughters always insisted he would? Did he actually have feelings for you? Or was it something else? Something you couldn’t even begin to fathom?

As you lay there contemplating, you heard footsteps in the hallway. Wondering who was up this late, you lit your lamp and peered through the darkness at the door. It opened slowly and a pale head peeked inside.

“Ichabod?!” You whispered loudly. “What on earth are you doing here so late? Eldest will have your head on a platter if she finds you here! She already thinks you’re going to spirit me away at the first available opportunity!”

“My apologies, Ellis,” He whispered back. “I…I wanted to offer an explanation for what happened this afternoon. It’s been weighing heavily on my mind and I had to see you to put it right. I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So you broke in?”

“I just scaled the gate. And climbed the wall. And maybe broke a door--it doesn’t matter!” He stepped inside. “Is your leg alright? I fear I may have bitten it accidentally. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Oh, yes, it’s fine,” You said, pulling back your sheets to show him. “It was a tiny cut. It’s practically healed now.”

“Oh, good,” He said, a hand over his heart. He looked genuinely distressed.

“Ichabod…” You began quietly as he shut the door. “Why… why did you do what you did?”

Ichabod sighed. He went and stoked the fire back to life, adding a log or two, then picked up the chair that sat in the corner of the room, placing it in front of you next to the bed and settling himself in it. He avoided your eye.

“Ellis,” He said, clasping his hands between his knees. “I greatly enjoy being a doctor. The opportunity to help people and ease their suffering gives my life purpose and meaning. Having said that, I wish I could say that it’s not in my nature to ever hurt another person, but there are… desires, you might call them… base impulses against which I have always battled. Impulses that are, to be blunt…”

“Not human?” You ventured.

His head shot up and he stared at you in shock. “How did you…”

“I guessed,” You said. “You’re not as good at hiding it as you think you are.”

“Not around you, at least,” He said, chuckling ruefully.

“Me?” You replied, furrowing your brow. “Why me?”

“Why indeed?” He asked. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been… enthralled. Perhaps it’s because I came to your rescue as if you were a baby bird, or perhaps it’s your perseverance in the face of your condition, I’m not sure. But I do feel a connection to you. I am… enchanted by you.” He looked at you again briefly with an indiscernible expression, and you found your cheeks grow warm. “Unfortunately, I also feel… those desires. Very strongly, I’m afraid.”

You had trouble parsing out what he was trying to say. “You want to… hurt me?”

His face was aghast. “Oh, goodness no! Never! Quite the opposite, in fact,” He averted his gaze again and rubbed his neck. “I want to protect you as much as I am able. You see… I… Oh, I don’t know how to say this…”

“Let’s start here, then,” You said. “What exactly are you?”

He took a deep, deep breath. “I’m not entirely sure. I fairly certain I have some fae and demon blood. Perhaps a little bit of human, too. I think.”

“How old are you?”

“Again, I’m not sure. There’s not much about my past I remember. My first memory is the cage.”

Your heart thumped against your ribs. “Cage?”

“Yes, I was kept as an… attraction… before I could control my…” He swallowed, flicking his eyes up at you and looking away. “My form. I don’t know how old I was at the time, but I don’t think I was fully grown, though I was rather large. I was billed as ‘The Demon Maneater’.” He laughed darkly. “I pulled in quite the crowd.”

“Maneater?” You echoed. “Why that title specifically?”

He scrubbed his face and sighed. “Because of my impulses. I eat normal food, drink water, sleep as humans do, and that’s usually enough to keep me sated. But underneath it, there’s this… thirst. A craving that I couldn’t control as well when I was younger. It led me to a lot of trouble.”

You hesitated before asking. “A thirst for--”

“Blood,” He said sharply. It was probably the first time his voice had ever had an edge to it. He was clasping his hands so tightly that the knuckles were completely bloodless. “The man who… owned me, he kept me starving so that the… bloodlust, I guess, was always strong and hard to control. He fed me on pig’s blood alone. Made a show of it, actually. Charged admission for people to watch me suck it down.” His face had a hard grimace of disgust and loathing on it.

“God, that’s terrible,” You said, clutching your chest. “How did you get away?”

“I got too big for my cage,” He said. “I attacked my captor as he was trying to put me in a new one. It was the first, and only time, I tasted human blood.”

“Besides today,” You reminded him.

He met your gaze and his face fell mournfully. “Yes. Besides today.”

“Why did you do that?” You asked again.

“I don’t know!” His head fell into his hands and he gripped his hair, which was out of its braid and cascading down his shoulders, obscuring his face. It was as disheveled as you’d ever seen him. “I’ve been so careful! I eat so much that I feel sick sometimes. I drink enough water to plant a field every day, just to suppress it. I’ve done everything I can, but today, I was overwhelmed. I don’t know why.”

“Can you… smell blood? Like, do you have the nose of a bloodhound or something?” You asked.

“No, no. That’s not a gift I was born with,” He said.

“That’s odd,” You replied thoughtfully.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, when you said I smelled good earlier,” You said, and he blushed. “To be honest… my monthly bleeding started today. Perhaps you…”

“...oh. Ohhh.” He breathed. “Huh. Honestly, there have been times when some people smelled better to me than others. I just thought it was because they’d used perfumes or oils or some such. Could I have been sensing…?”

“You don’t know?” You asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole life suppressing this side of myself. It’s not something I ever wanted to explore.”

“You’ve never told your spouse or sweetheart?” You asked curiously, keeping your face and voice carefully neutral.

He eyed you with a rueful smile. “No spouses. No sweethearts. I’ve had… lovers before, but nothing serious. And I never revealed my true self to them.”

You shifted in bed so that you were sitting on the edge with your feet on the ground and looked him in the eye. “Will you show me?”

His face was all panic and he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he said, “Are you sure you want to see?”

You nodded. “I’m certainly intrigued.”

He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and furrowed his brow in deliberation. “My greatest fear is that seeing my true form will frighten you beyond the capacity for understanding, but at the same time, I want so badly for you to see me as I am. I want you to know me, all of me.”

“Even though you don’t like yourself?”

“One can only hide who they are for so long before it becomes tiresome. I suppose… I’m lonely.”

“Why me?” You asked him again.

“I’ve told you, you’ve charmed me. I am drawn to you in some way that I can’t identify. Your opinion and acceptance means more to me than anyone else’s, and I can’t say why that is.”

“Most might call that love,” You blurted, instantly regretting it.

Except, a gentle smile crept across his face for the first time since he arrived. “Love…” he repeated. “Yes. I believe you may be right.”

Your blush deepened. Was he serious? Could this man possibly love you, or was it just his impulses swaying his emotions? It’s not like you had much experience with the issue, so you could hardly tell.

“Your the first person I’ve ever told. The man who taught me medicine is the only other person who knew. He saved my life, gave me sanctuary, and showed me my purpose. I miss him.” He stood up. “Well… I’ve come halfway already. I suppose stopping now would be pointless.” His sad expression returned. “I just hope, after you’ve seen me, you might at least still consider me a friend.”

He began to change then. With your heart in your throat, you watch as his body stretched and thinned. He towered over you, his waist shrinking to be no thicker than your calf. He grew an extra pinky finger and thumb on each hand, and his ankles pushed backward into digitigrade feet, each with seven toes. His eyes went completely black and swallowed the light. He was more skeletal than lithe now, with bones jutting out all over, and his long hair seemed to be prehensile and moving under its own power. His mouth split his head to each ear, and inside were teeth that were more like jagged pieces of glass jutting out of his black gums. You imagined they had been what nicked your leg earlier.

His clothes had changed with him; his glamour must have also extended to his garments. You suspected he may have made them himself. He was longer, thinner. Sharper. Everything about him was angular and pointed, except the curve of his spine as he hunched over you.

You sat on your cot with your hands in your lap, just looking up at him. He seemed to be leaning away from you slightly, no doubt expecting you to scream or attack. You slowly stood up, blessedly needing no assistance at the moment, and took him in. Slowly, you raised your hand, and he flinched.

“Is it alright if I touch you?” You asked him. He seemed momentarily stunned by the question, but after a moment to recover, he nodded. You reached up and traced the line of his mouth, from one ear to the other, causing him to close his eyes and make a purring sound. You traced his lids, eyebrows, nose, jaw, and down his neck. When you got to his collar, he gingerly stopped your hand by taking it in his.

“You’re not afraid?” He asked wonderingly.

You shook your head. “I knew you weren’t human. Honestly, I was expecting ten arms and a tail with a stinger on the end, at least.” You laughed and stroked his hair, which wrapped itself around your wrist loosely. “Compared to what I was imagining in my head, this is tame.”

His eyes squeezed closed in relief, tears slipping down his face. Halfway down his cheeks, they crystallized and fell to the ground, tinkling like glass beads on the stone floor.

“I knew you were special,” He said. “I knew you were perfect.” He took your hands and pressed them against his nose, inhaling your scent into every corner of his lungs. His hands were shaking.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you? Or thirsty? Or… something?” You asked uncertainly.

He smiled at you gently, brushing your hair away from your eyes. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m more in control right now than I’ve ever been.”

“That’s good, but… um…” You cleared your throat nervously. “I was wondering if maybe I could help you. You’ve done so much for me, I just thought I could do something for you in return.”

He cocked his head in confusion. “What kind of something?”

You took a shaky breath and looked down, using his finger to tap the lower part of your belly. He continued to look confused for another several seconds before his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

“Are you… are you serious? Are you sure?” He asked in an awed whisper. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes,I’m sure,” You said. “I want to thank you. After everything you’ve done for me, I can’t help but feel like I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” He said emphatically. “The fact that you can look at my true face and still smile at me is all the thanks I could ever need.”

“I still want to do something for you,” You told him. “I feel stronger than I have in years. The therapy has helped me so much. If you don’t want to think of it as payment, then think of it as a gift.”

Though his eyes were completely black, you could feel the warmth that radiated from them when he smiled. He actually put an arm across his chest and bowed solemnly before you.

“Then I accept with more gratitude than I can express.”

You smiled and patted his head.

“You’re quivering,” He said, standing back up and taking your hand.

“I must admit, I’m nervous,” You replied. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” You looked up into his eyes. “Will it hurt?”

“No, darling,” He whispered tenderly, bending to nuzzle your cheek. “No pain. In fact, I will do everything I can to ensure you enjoy this as much as I will.”

Your heart rate shot up, but you nodded. “Alright. How do we begin?”

He put his long hands on your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss. He was careful to keep his teeth tucked away so that they wouldn’t cut you. You kissed him back, a thrill in your spine. He carefully lifted your nightgown over your head and placed it on the chair. He knelt down and pulled your stockings and the linen roll you used for your monthly bleeding. Embarrassed, you took it from him and placed it in the washing pan to clean later.

He smiled at your blushing face. “Don’t be ashamed. It’s a natural thing.”

“Oh, I know,” You told him. “The Daughters see it as a gift. I’ve just… never been naked in front of a man before.”

“For what it’s worth, you’re exquisite to the eye,” He said, running his knuckles down your spine, making you shiver. “I could look at you like this and never grow tired of it.”

“Thank you,” You replied in a small voice. “So… what should I do?”

He took your hand and led you to the foot of the bed, urging you to lie down with your legs over the end. He climbed over you, kissing your lips. Your tongue ran over his jagged teeth and you pushed him back a little.

“You’re sure it won’t hurt?” You asked dubiously.

He grinned and opened his mouth, and you watched as the teeth receded into his gums, leaving only soft tissue behind.

“Oh,” You said. You watched as something slithered out and wriggled around. To your surprise, he had not one, but seven black tongues, tentacle-like and writhing.

“Relax,” He said. “I’ll take care of you. Are you still sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” You said firmly. “I do.”

He smiled. “Lie down, then. Get comfy.”

You obeyed, not really knowing what to expect. He knelt down in front of you, kissing your thighs as he opened your legs. He pulled you down a little further and, looking down, you saw him close in on your core, his mouth opening wide and suctioning to your lips and clit with a sigh of deep satisfaction. And he began to suck.

You were shocked at the effect the pressure had on you. You’d touched yourself before, but it didn’t feel like this. In addition to the suction, his tongues worked into you and around your pearl, massaging and contracting. Your back arched and you gasped, the muscles in your stomach tightening involuntarily.

Well, he said you’d enjoy it. He wasn’t lying.

You suddenly felt a spasm in your back and cried out. He seemed to realize this wasn’t a sound of pleasure and stopped immediately, licking his chops.

“What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?” He asked.

“No,” You said, wincing. “I had a twinge in my back.”

“Just a moment,” He said, standing. As he stood, you saw a bulge in his pants. You pressed your lips together to keep the startled smile off your face. He took your pillow and the extra blankets and tilted you upward, putting them behind your back so that you were sitting up a bit more.

“Where?” He asked, and you showed him. He took a few moments to massage the spot, easing the muscle down and working the twinge out. His extra fingers were magic for your muscles. “Does that help?”

You moaned happily. “Yes, very much. God, I wish I’d let you do the deep tissue massages sooner.”

He laughed. “My hands are yours whenever you want them.”

“I think I’d rather have your mouth at the moment,” You said, and then slapped a hand to your own lips, surprised at your sudden frankness.

His grin was devilish. “As you wish, my darling.” He returned to his previous position and took up his task with relish. You cried out again, but it was clear this time that it was nothing but ecstasy.

One of his hands gripped your thigh, but the other hand slipped up your torso. You bit your lip and smiled as his fingers cupped your breast, circling your nipple with his fingertips. His black eyes watched your every move, every expression, every twitch of your muscles. He watched for pain and pleasure in your face and body, changing the pressure to match. He was good at this.

Before long, you felt it: a wave of bliss that curled your toes and pulled the voice out of you. His hand covered your mouth, muffling your moans as the wave crashed into you. You reached down and ran your fingers through his hair, holding him there as you came down. As it ebbed, you took both of his hands and held them over your breasts. He kneaded the flesh back and forth with his long, long fingers as you held his wrists in place. He kept up the pressure, still sucking, and you felt another wave build and crash. And build and crash.

Finally, he pulled away from you with a long, drawn out moan.

“Incredible,” He breathed. “I’ve never felt so satisfied in all my life.” He rose up and examined your face. “Are you alright?”

“I am…” You said in a sleepy voice. “Lovely.”

“You are,” He said, bending to kiss you, but you stopped him.

“Um… maybe wash out your mouth first?” You suggested.

He ducked his head and smiled. “Of course. Forgive me.”

As he went to the pitcher of water on the table, you lay still on the bed, your body warm and tingling. You watched him swish water and a mint sprig around in his mouth several times and spit it into the chamber pot. His pants were still tented, and you bit your lip in curiosity. The feeling of cramps and bloating was completely gone, and once you caught your breath, you were feeling adventurous.

As he returned, you sat up and reached out, palming the bulge and looking up at him. He grunted.

“You… you don’t have to,” He said, though he leaned into your touch.

“I want to,” You said, reaching for the buttons. “I have a lot to learn. I want you to teach me.”

He smiled and caressed your face. “I think I like this bold side of you, darling.”

You chuckled and pulled him out. His cock was pearly and iridescent, as though it was made of frosted glass, though the skin was soft and pliable, and it was warm to the touch. You stroked it slowly, enjoying the weight and smoothness in your hand, before leaning forward and pressing your tongue to the head. He jerked and made a strangled noise. You looked up at him and held his gaze as you pulled the tip into your mouth. He groaned and tangled his fingers in your hair.

“Oh, my love, you learn so fast,” He wheezed. “I may not last long.”

“That’s alright,” You said. I don’t mind.”

Just then, he grunted loudly and released on your chest. You giggled.

“Sorry. Sorry,” He gasped, rushing to get a wet cloth to clean you up with.

“I don’t mind,” You repeated with a laugh.

After wiping you down, he helped you redress and put himself away. He kissed your lips, eyes, cheek, and neck.

“Ellis,” He said, sitting back on his heels and taking your hands. “Are you seriously contemplating becoming a nun, or would you consider another option?”

“What other option?”

“Marry me,” He said seriously, pressing your palms to his chest. “You needn’t… provide for me…” He said, gesturing at your belly. “You needn’t even love me in return. All I want is to come home to someone who accepts me as I am, to talk to someone without having to pretend. If all you have to give me is your time and company, I would consider myself doubly blessed for the rest of my days.”

You smiled at him, a little in shock, but knowing what your answer would be. You bent forward and pressed another kiss to his lips.

“I think I can give you more than that.”

You fell asleep in his arms, and he left before dawn. He told you he had arrangements to make and that by the time he returned for his next appointment, everything would be ready for you. You had a moment of self-doubt that perhaps he was absconding on you, but he seemed to sense your uncertainty and left you his doctor’s coat as collateral.

The Daughters were in an uproar when you told them you were to marry the physician, but there was little they could do to stop you. Even if they tried to lock you up for your own good, you knew they couldn’t stop Ichabod from coming for you.

Ichabod returned precisely when he said he would, having borrowed a cart from a friend to pick up you and your things and take you to his home. When he stepped down and saw you, his expression was so tender and warm, you couldn’t understand how the Daughter’s didn’t see that he was a man in love. It was obvious even to you. Well, you were biased, you supposed.

“Are you ready?” He asked, loading your chair into the cart. “I’ve got the house all fixed up.”

“Fixed up?” You echoed.

“Yes!” He said excitedly. “I made some modifications so that you can move around the house more easily. I put rails on all of the walls and a ramp on the front porch for your chair. The local woodcarvers helped me. They have a shop right next door to us.”

Your jaw dropped. “You did all that for me?”

He nodded shyly. “I want you to be happy and comfortable.”

You wanted to cry. You couldn’t believe how considerate he was. You took his hand, which hand only five fingers now that his glamour was back in place, and kissed the knuckles.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

His smile widened and he kissed your cheek. “Don’t thank me for that. It’s nothing,” He said. “For your acceptance, your understanding, it’s the very least I can do.”

You said goodbye to the Daughters, and Eldest held you for a very long time. You were concerned that she might not let you go. Eventually she released you and fixed a hard glare on Ichabod.

“I expect to hear from her regularly,” Eldest said. “If I go a month without a letter, I’m bringing a mob to your front door and kicking it in.”

“I’ll hold you to that, madam,” Ichabod said pleasantly. “I know you’re worried for this lovely young woman, but you have my word that I will treat her like a queen.”

“You’re word isn’t worth much to me,” Eldest replied harshly. “We’ll be checking in.”

Ichabod bowed to acknowledge the veiled threat. “Always a pleasure, Eldest Daughter. We will visit soon.”

You took Ichabod’s hand, and he helped you up into the driver’s box.

“Ready to go home?” He asked.

You took a moment to look back at the only home you’d known since you were small, then faced forward.

“Yes, love. Let’s go.”

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My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

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irwintry · 5 years

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Only Angel, Only Human

Warnings: swearing, fluff, and a lot of angst

Summary: Michael is Y/N’s guardian angel

Word Count: 4.3k

Michael had seen you die right before his eyes.

He had seen the physical life fade as the soul descended. The soul he had witnessed enter and exit from day one to the last breaths. He had seen the final tears, the ones he had longed to always dry, but he couldn’t. To you, he wasn’t real. He didn’t exist. And in those few minutes, neither did you.

Michael believed he had failed. He had failed his duties, and he had failed you.

He wanted to chase down your soul and beg you to return, but he didn’t have to. The silent room was filled with the slow beeping of the heart monitor, and Michael fell to his knees. He desired to touch you, to hold your hand and promise you he’d never let it happen again. But even he knew it didn’t work like that. All he could do was sit back and pretend he had never gotten attached to you in the first place.

Michael didn’t see you again until after you recovered. He kept his distance as long as you kept safe, and he had promised himself to never behave the way he had in the past. His world revolved around you, but in yours, he was a myth. A fictious, albeit sometimes religious, myth. His job had never been to fall for the way your face scrunched when you laughed or the way you got excited over the little things.

So, he promised to never appear unless you needed him. And knowing you, it would happen more often than desired.

You hummed as you cooked, mind elsewhere while the stove sizzled from hot oils spilling onto the cooktop. A familiar playlist played on your phone; it was filled with older music you had learned from your mother–– the kind of stuff she grew up with, the kind of stuff you forced yourself to know in honor of her. The hot oil popped on the stove, but you carried on dancing as you made yourself a drink.

And then you placed the rice into the pan and turned up the heat, and Michael couldn’t stop himself from sighing out a quiet, “no, don’t fucking do that.”

You jumped, a small shriek leaving your lips as your spatula clattered to the tile floor. When you turned, your eyes and mouth fell wide.

Michael stood from the dining chair on instinct, rushing to turn off the stove while you remained frozen in place. To him, your heartbeat echoed around the room, but he didn’t mind the sound. He swore he never would–– not after fearing that he would never hear it again.

Suddenly, you reached behind your body, tugging a knife out from one of the drawers and holding it up to threaten him. It was a small steak knife, but Michael knew that––if he had been human––it would do significant damage to one.

He laughed, and you shoved the knife his way. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. That was what the perpetrators did in the movies you watched. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

You stayed silent, fear clearly evident in your expression. He had seen it countless times over, and he never imagined he would see it because of his presence alone. Michael blinked, and his mouth went dry. You saw him.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled. “Can you actually hear me right now?”

You raised a brow, but you nodded slowly, nevertheless. “Wh-what are you–– why are you in my apartment?” you asked, raising the knife toward his chin. It seemed like a threatening gesture, but Michael was unfazed. The only thing about you that scared him was the look on your face every time you cried. (He tried not to think about the time you had died and came back to life.) “Who are you?”

“Uh, hi.” He glanced down at the sharp object. “Technically––“ he said, moving the knife away from his face, but you only pushed it back under his chin again. “––I’m not supposed to be physically here. I’m Michael. I’m your guardian angel, and you were about to burn your face off.”

“Yeah, okay,” you chuckled. “Hi, Michael, I’m gonna stab you now.”

“You actually can’t do that,” he said, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. His arms ached from being raised for so long. “I’m not alive. But you can try if ya want. I don’t have any blood but like, go right ahead.”

The terror had yet to leave your face, and Michael didn’t like that. He didn’t like a single thing about the interaction, and it terrified him to know that something had gone wrong. Something about your death had left him on the physical plane. Or, perhaps, you could see into his alternate dimension. Michael didn’t know a thing about science, but he knew that humans and souls could interact on a specific level depending on the transmitted energy. But you were not supposed to interact with Michael no matter what.

The knife nestled beneath his chin proved that something had seriously gone wrong.

You slowly lowered the weapon, and your heart-rate slowed, too. “D-do you want cash? Money? I don’t have a lot.”

Michael sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “There’s gotta be a way I can prove it to you,” he muttered under his breath.

“I have an unopened back of gum,” you said. “That’s–– sorry, that’s not appealing. I, uh––“

“Y/N, I don’t want anything from you,” said Michael as he leaned against your magnet-cover refrigerator. “I’m just as scared as you are, it’s cool.”

“No, no,” you muttered firmly. You raised the knife once more. “It’s not cool. You–– you broke into my home. You–– are you stalking me? What do you want?”

Michael frowned. “I’m so sorry,” he spoke. “I didn’t know this would happen. I didn’t wanna scare you. I wasn’t exactly told how to deal with the clientele after they died and were miraculously resurrected.”

Your hand fell to your side, eyes widening once more while you stared up at him. He had never felt your gaze before–– it haunted him in a way he couldn’t explain. He never knew eye contact in any shape or form, and now he felt like he needed it.

“Yeah, uh, I’m just gonna leave for a bit,” he continued, “t’let you digest whatever happened. Please, make a salad or something. And don’t choke because then I’ll have to come right back, and you probably don’t wanna see me ever again, so––“

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

You stared up at him, bottom lip bitten in while you crossed your arms over your chest. “Are you a ghost, or something? How did you know I died?”

“I guess, technically, you didn’t die ‘cos your heart just stopped beatin’, but––“

“But how did you know?”

Michael sighed. “I’m your guardian angel, pet. Supposed t’keep you alive. You weren’t meant to die yet.”

Your scowl transformed into a deep frown, and sadness replaced the fear in your eyes. He could sense the shift in demeanor–– it left you vulnerable, and the reminder of your accident only stirred up forgotten emotions. If Michael knew anyone better than he knew himself, it was you. Because he had known you for your entire life, and you were never supposed to know him.

“Uh, yeah, so–– I’ll catch ya later,” said Michael. “Maybe in like a month or two when you accidentally set fire to the kitchen again.”

He waited for you to say something. He waited for you to stop him again, and it was the little sliver of hope that forced an unbearable silence. The issue was that Michael knew you like the back of his hand, but all you saw was an intruder. A pale man who fed you excuses.

So, when you glanced down at the knife in your hand, Michael took that as an opportunity to vanish. But the feeling of your eyes burning into his skull never left. As it turned out, two minutes of contact with you made him feel more human than he ever had before.

Michael hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. He hadn’t expected to appear on a sidewalk of an empty street in the dead of night. He heard your breaths, he heard your heartbeat, but he also heard much more than that. He heard the panic that shook through your bones, all because a car had clipped the curb, and you weren’t ready to face that sort of trauma again.

He didn’t know how to approach you. Now, after the fear you had felt when seeing him for the first time, he wasn’t sure how to react. For the first time in his years of guardianship, he had been late to the scene. He didn’t know how to approach you.

“Aren’t you supposed to help me?” you asked, eyes casting down to your bruised knees. There hadn’t been an impact, that Michael knew–– you had a natural clumsiness that he both admired and despised. It made his job a lot harder than it needed to be.

Michael had been standing down the block, silent as he could possibly be, yet his presence was overwhelming. He didn’t have wings or a shiny golden halo, but an aura surrounded him. He was light and airy, and he was meant to hold warmth. He was meant for comfort. It didn’t shock him that you spotted him easily in the pitch-black night.

“You’re supposed to be my guardian angel, yeah?” You glanced over at him from your spot on the ground. “You’re supposed to help me. Then–– then why didn’t you keep that fucking car from almost hitting me?” Your breaths were heavy as you swallowed back tears, but the panic had returned. “Why didn’t you keep that other car from c-crashing into mine? Why didn’t you keep me from fucking dying?”

Michael wished he could disappear. He had never been faced with his own problems–– he only witnessed you deal with yours. And now, he had to answer for his actions, and he had to be brave about it. But seeing you so broken, so traumatized because of an event he could have prevented made him sick to his stomach.

He made his way down the sidewalk, and though he ached to carry on, he stopped once his feet reached you. He didn’t say a word as he sat down beside you and stared straight ahead. For all he knew, words would only be used against him.

Your breaths evened out after a few quiet moments, but the tears continued to fall. It was all his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, clasping his hands together to keep them from twitching. “I wish–– I wish it worked that way.”

“Then––“ You inhaled shakily. “––h-how does it work?”

“I can’t protect you from every harmful thing life throws your way,” said Michael as he stole a glance at you. You had been looking at him. He was sure you saw him a lot differently now. Like a ghost, almost. “I’m like a conscience. I guide you a bit, help with decisions and stuff. I make you feel comfortable.”

“I don’t feel very comfortable right now,” you mumbled, eyes glassy from old tears.

He nodded. It stung, but he understood. “You’re not meant to see me,” he said. “You never were.”

“Does ev’rybody have a thing like you?” The way you spoke chiseled specks out of his chest–– you sounded damaged and defeated, and he wanted to be better. “A guardian or whatever?”

“Angel,” he chuckled. “Yeah. Everyone’s got one. But you’re the lucky bunch who gets to see my stupid face.”

And, as if it were some miracle, you let out a laugh, too. “’s not stupid,” you mumbled. “I just–– God.” You groaned, stuffing your face into your hands. “I feel weird for wanting to believe, you know? But you literally disappeared. Like, in the middle of my frickin’ kitchen.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda fun,” said Michael, smiling. “Jus’ popping in and out of existence. It’s a little disorienting coming in though. Kinda like coming back from the dead. I don’t exist otherwise.”

“What?” You hadn’t gazed elsewhere since Michael sat beside you, and your stare only intensified with each passing moment. “You don’t exist?”

Michael hummed. “Y’know how there are dimensions?”

You nodded.

“I’m beyond the third,” he said and set his hand flat against his knee to demonstrate. “My hand is the first and my other is the second. See it’s above it. The third is above that–– that’s where you are. The fourth dimension is gray area. You can interact with it but only when the planes intersect. Higher dimensions can always interact with those lower no matter what.”

“I’m lost.”

“It’s okay.” Michael chuckled. “If you fall on the third dimension, and I’m not on the fourth, then I’m some crazy number after that. So, I have always been able to see you, but you cannot see me. Or, like, you weren’t able to see me.”

You blinked a few times, and he could hear the cogs turning in your head. “Science is fucking nuts,” you breathed out, and he laughed. “How does that explain why you don’t exist?”

Michael shrugged. “I’m not alive. I only exist when you need me to.”

“You exist because of me?” you asked, your voice so soft it sent a shiver up his spine.

He nodded.

“Are you–– am I able to–– to touch you?”

“Touch?” asked Michael. “Darling, you nearly cut me with your knife.”

“Oh.”

He let out another laugh. The dynamic had changed in a positive way, and he swore to himself that he would never fuck it up again. “Give it a try,” he said, holding out his hand.

You looked up at him and back down at his hand, and you soon raised yours just above his. He could sense your reluctance, and he hoped you couldn’t sense his. Once your fingers brushed his knuckles, it hardly mattered. It was a sensation Michael had never felt before. A sensation that made him feel a little more human.

“What’s the danger tonight?”

Michael hadn’t seen you before your words hit him. He had appeared in the candy aisle of a convenient store, one hand gripping hard against the plastic shelving to keep himself steady. And, for the first time, he suspected nothing. For the first time, he didn’t feel your presence or understand why he stood where he stood.

“I, um––“ Michael turned around, and his stomach lurched at the sight of you. You were there in a simple pair of mesh shorts and your mother’s college sweatshirt. You were there, Red Bull in hands and eyes red and watery, and he immediately knew it was from tears. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug.

You let out a laugh. A dry laugh that took all of your energy to conjure up. “Okay,” you replied and stepped toward him.

“Did ya miss me?” he asked–– an honest attempt at trying to lighten the mood.

The close proximity made it easier to see the exhaustion in your features. You weren’t close to dying or in imminent, heart-wrenching danger. You just needed a friend.

You shrugged, eyes flickering down to glance at your shoes. “Don’t know you,” you mumbled.

Michael nodded. You were right. You had no reason to miss him–– you had no reason to want to. All he was to you was a product of imagination. You saw him as a figment, something that came from a tragic memory, and you had no reason to believe in his existence.

“Do you only have those clothes?” you asked and motioned to the faded plaid shirt he wore.

“I’m supposed t’blend in,” he said.

You chuckled, and he noticed that it had been more genuine than the last. “So, you don’t like, sweat or anything?”

“Sweat?”

“Yeah, sweat,” you said, yet he stared at you in confusion. “If you get too hot?”

“Oh.” Michael nodded at you and smiled. “Yeah, I can’t feel temperature. Well, I mean I couldn’t before. I dunno if that’s changed now that I’m kinda a physical being.” It was still weird to him. He had been a personified “being” from the start, but never existed on the physical plane you were on. And now that he did, he didn’t know what sort of laws he fit into.

He felt a little more human and a little less angel.

You looked behind you, eyes locking on the drink coolers until you turned back to face him. “Well, Michael, it doesn’t hurt to find out,” you said.

A pang of anxiety rushed through him; it wasn’t a new feeling, but he had only experienced it in relation to your actions. He never experienced nerves pertaining to his own self, and he wasn’t sure why he was nervous in the first place. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

You opened the cooler door for him without warning, and Michael was suddenly hit with a new feeling that he couldn’t describe. A sensation that he swore he only imagined.

“Do you feel it?” you asked.

He swallowed. “Uh, I think.”

You reached your arm out and pushed him forward gently, and this time, the cold slithered up his arms and under his clothes. And he hated it. He hated every goddamn thing about it.

You shut the door.

Michael stayed silent for a moment or two, and then he looked at you. “I’m not–– uh, I’m not supposed to––“

You smiled warmly. It was the kind of smile that reassured him he was okay.

Because truth be told, Michael wasn’t sure he was okay. He had worried about you for your entire life, and now all he could think about was your gentle touch and the way you said his name. He could only think about the cold air on his skin and your warm gaze. It was more than he had ever known, for all he had known was you.

“I’m just gonna pay for this––” you said, holding up the small can of Red Bull.

Michael forced a laugh. He could remember the countless commercials he saw for the brand, and he could remember your offbeat commentary while you waited for reruns of your favorite show.

“––and then we can head out, if you want,” you continued. “Get you a new shirt or something.” You smiled at him again before making your way over to the cashier, and Michael had to restrain himself from disappearing right then. He didn’t even know if he had the capability to do that anymore. He didn’t even know what he was.

And then you were walking over again, eyes bright and smile so warm, it could melt him if you tried. Michael decided that, for the time being, he had no reason to worry. Not when he was with you.

You had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

On the walk back to your place, you talked about the accident. You talked about the cost, the recovery, the flashbacks, and more. You talked about the anxiety that crawled up your chest when you crossed the street, and you mentioned the ache that persisted where your ribs had once cracked. Your voice wavered as you spoke, and all Michael could do was listen. He knew it all––every single bit, but he still listened.

And then you were asking him if he had ever tried Thai food before, and Michael’s mind went elsewhere. He thought about the feeling of his shoes beneath the soles of his feet, and he thought about the weight of your gaze every time you talked to him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. So, no, he had never had Thai food before. He had never needed food before.

“Well, then,” you had said, pulling out your phone while you opened the door to your apartment, “tonight it’s on me.”

You had ordered him fried rice, and you talked about your favorite restaurants in your hometown until the food arrived. Michael remembered the places you talked about as if he had been there yesterday. But he hardly thought more about your past when he was here living in your present. You placed the food directly in front of him and waited.

“Go on then,” you urged. “Baby’s first bite.”

Baby. Michael smiled and grabbed the fork. “Is that supposed to be an endearing term?” he asked you, and meanwhile, you sat on the couch beside him. Your knee brushed his.

“In the technical sense,” you began, “no. But it can be.”

He gave you a nod and took a big bite, allowing the flavors to settle on his tongue before chewing and swallowing. And Michael, well, he felt like crying. It was new, and it was too much. But he didn’t say a word about it. Instead, he gave you a smile and a thumbs up and carried on with his meal. He tried not to think about his life shifting before his eyes. If he even considered himself to have a life to begin with.

The night continued with mixed drinks and conversations about music and movies you thought he would like–– despite the fact that he knew he did like said music and movies. You sat close to him and chatted for hours, never mind the fact that you had purchased the Red Bull so you could work on a thesis for school. Michael didn’t want to stop you.

You handed him your phone at some point during the night, fingers grazing over his and sending sparks down into his skin. The feeling alone had made his heart stutter, and then Michael had to calm his breathing. He wasn’t alive. He wasn’t supposed to have a heartbeat.

You showed him videos and stupid pictures from your past meanwhile. You loomed over, shoulder against his while you pointed out your haircut from the year 2012. Michael was all too aware of you. He was all too aware of the tension in his shoulders and the stiffness in his posture. Because now, he could smell, and something about your perfume was absolutely intoxicating.

And then, you fell asleep on his shoulder in the middle of your favorite show, and he could no longer breathe.

The next time Michael felt fully conscious, he took in his surroundings. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he last saw you, but then he felt the weight on his shoulder. He felt an arm draped across his lap, and he heard your soft breaths in the room of white noise. Michael’s mouth went dry, and his eyes welled with tears. The clock on your phone read 3:23 in the morning. He hadn’t disappeared. He had fallen asleep.

You stirred beside him, eyes fluttering open while they adjusted to the soft light of a nearby lamp. Your eyes glistened, and your smile was tired––it filled his chest with an unfamiliar sensation.

But instead of moving away, you nestled closer, arm tightening across his torso while you settled your head against his chest. He knew you could hear his newfound heartbeat. He knew you could feel his warmth; he could feel it, too. His palms were moist with the sweat you had mentioned only hours prior.

“Mike,” you whispered against him.

He smiled and hummed. “’s that a nickname?”

“Yeah,” you said, “unless you prefer baby.”

That feeling returned in his chest, but he didn’t speak. You slowly looked up, eyes squinty and smile still stretched on your lips. And Michael didn’t know what he was feeling, but he knew it was a good feeling. He knew he wanted to move the stray hair that had fallen over your cheek, so he brushed it back behind your ear. He just hadn’t known how soft your cheek would be. He hadn’t known how much he’d find himself staring at your lips, desiring to know how they felt against his.

But he took the chance.

Your nose nudged his, and you smiled into the kiss. It was warm, delicate, and everything the movies had made it out to be like. It was everything he needed it to be.

Michael found himself in the hallway of your apartment building, arms reaching for the walls to keep himself composed. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream–– he wanted it to stop. For once, Michael wanted nothing but to live. He didn’t know how much time had passed since he last saw you, or you last saw him. All he knew were his knuckles knocking on your door. All he knew was the look on your face when you opened to see it was him.

And then you said his name, breathy and sad like you hadn’t said it in ages. And then your arms wrapped around his shoulders in a tight embrace like you hadn’t held him in years.

“I thought it was over,” he whispered, clutching your sweater between his trembling fingers. “I thought I was here for good.”

“Michael,” you said again, pulling back. You cupped his cheeks and pressed a kiss to his lips, and he was suddenly aware of the tears slipping from his eyes. “It’s okay.”

He sniffed. “How long was I gone?”

You just shook your head and grazed your thumbs beneath his eyes. “Just a month,” you replied with a smile. “That’s all. I missed you.”

A sigh of relief escaped his lips. “Just a month?”

You nodded. You rested your arms against his shoulders, fingers slipping into his hair while you stared up at him. “Don’t leave anymore,” you said. “I know you can’t–– you can’t control it, but––“

“I promise,” he told you, and then he smiled, too. “I promise, baby. I’m not leaving you ever again.”

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disabled-queen-hc-blog · 5 years

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hi! i read Your rules and i just want to say it's definitely disco deacy. deacy and Not deaky!! also i Wanted to ask - could you Do something with joger and ocd? (as you Can obviously see i have ocd myself and ive been feeling extra shitty about it lately) i love Your writing and please keep writing its really great! have a Great day!

“One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three,” Roger mumbled to himself as he flicked the light switch off and on. He had to do it three times and in three sets. Three, six, nine, twelve were the numbers that kept everyone safe. If he did it four times or in four sets, John would die. If he did it twice in two sets, Queen would fail.

The lights were finally off and he exited the bathroom. He opened and closed the door three times before it was officially shut. He counted the steps he took to the bed. It had to be an odd number or he’d have to start all over. Even numbers meant he would choke to death.

He was lucky tonight he made it to the bed in seven steps. He crawled into bed where John was already tucked in, sleepy eyed. He finished his bed time routine faster than Roger’s for obvious reasons.

Roger scooted his way closer to John, dragging to bassist closer to him. “Have you already gone to sleep?” Roger asked. John groaned, wriggling up to Roger, seconds away from succumbing to slumber. Roger took that as a yes.

“Well, goodnight then, love,” Roger said, pressing his lips to John’s. And then again. And again. John wasn’t even conscious for the last one.

Roger got himself comfortable, listening to John’s soft breathing. For most people, this should be a relaxing part of the day. It wasn’t for Roger. His body might start to relax, but his brain only gained more speed. There was so much to worry about.

What if John died in his sleep?

What if Roger had a heart attack?

What if he got a call at 3am that Freddie got killed in a car accident?

What if John could read his mind and was pretending to sleep, judging him for all these thoughts?

What if he accidentally smothered John somehow?

What if he died?

What if John died?

His heart was pounding in his chest, a sure sign of a heart attack, right? But it happened every night...no this was the night it’d end. He had to do something about it.

Roger got up, padding his way to the kitchen. He closed the bedroom door nine times because nine was better than three and six but not excessive like twelve or fifteen. Nine was also the square root of three unli-

He was in the kitchen, rummaging through the medicine cabinets. He needed aspirin for the heart attack he was definitely having and some melatonin so he could sleep.

He took one aspirin pill even though he’d prefer to take three. He took three melatonin capsules. He touched the water faucet seven times.

Roger was able to slink back into bed, only closing the door three times. He curled up against John and prayed for unconsciousness. It was the fifth day in a row he did this exact routine. He was scared it’d become permanent.

♚

Roger was up early, whistling as he cooked breakfast for the two of them. Toast and bacon. Nothing too heavy. Neither of them cared for heavy meals.

He poured oil into the skillet, turning on the stove to mid-high. That setting made the knob perfectly vertical.

He knew they’d only eat four strips of bacon between them, but that’d mean he’d have to fry three in one batch and one in the other, which wouldn’t work. He feared he’d kill John if he did. So he did six. But he couldn’t do two batches of three because he’d end up killing John that way too. So he crammed 6 strips into the frying pan that could accommodate three at most.

He hummed a song he heard on the radio the other day as he prepared the bread. Six slices again. But he hit a dilemma. There was only two slots in the toaster. He counted. He recounted it too, just in case. He’d have to do three batches of two and two wasn’t a good number. Maybe Brian would stub his toe or drown in his bath tub and he couldn’t be sure which.

He could ask John to do the toast, but what if it still had the same effect? Roger chewed his lip as the bacon crackled and popped, six slices of bread before him. He could figure this out by himself. He was grown. He could do this. He could do this without killing anyone. Without giving anyone cancer.

The bacon started to smoke.

Roger would find a way because everyone depended on him to find a way.

The oil was sizzling, the bacon turning black.

Roger had this under control, he just-

“R-Roger, baby, please,” John choked out from the kitchen doorway, eye’s welled with tears.

Roger looked back from the mess in front of him, breathing hard, his own eyes red and glossy.

“I have this,” he said, even though smoke was filling up the room.

John shook his head, having watched the whole thing. “No you don’t” he said, voice cracking.

John entered the kitchen, pushing Roger aside. He turned off the stove and opened a window. He opened up Roger’s hand, him unknowingly squishing the bread in a horrible mix of fear and frustration. He threw out the ruined bread before standing by the window, the morning sun making his tears glitter.

“I’m sorry,” John mumbled, trying to compose himself. Roger just stood frozen, not knowing what was happening. What had he done? Was this his fault? Of course it was. It was always his fault. He had one job and he always messed it up. He was supposed to keep everyone safe but he always fucked it up. He miscounted or didn’t do enough sets to-

“You deserve so much better, Rog,” John said after taking a deep breath. He turned to face his boyfriend, stepping closer to him.

“What are you talking about?” Roger said, eyebrows furrowing.

“Baby, the pan was seconds away from starting a grease fire. And you didn’t notice. Too busy with the counting,” John’s head tilted.

“No, no, I was just trying to think of a way to toast everything in three’s so you’d be alright. I would have noticed,” Roger nodded fast, not self aware to how ridiculous he sounded.

John smiled, but it was sad, his eyes tearing up again. He’d let this go one for far too long. He thought it was a quirk at first. A silly little thing Roger did for whatever reason. But the more time they spent together, especially after moving in, he began to realize how toxic these rituals were. The way Roger blabbered about numbers and how he was the only one in the way of all danger.

It was obvious Roger was suffering. He might not have been aware of it, but he wasn’t in a good place.

Roger took the weight of the world onto his shoulders, trying to protect the ones he loved from death and injury. It was John’s turn to do the protecting, the rescuing.

John pulled a confused Roger into a hug, squeezing him tight. “How about I make some phone calls and then I take you to a diner for breakfast instead?” he whispered, relaxing a little when Roger agreed.

♚

“Breathe, Rog. You have this. I’m here, alive and safe. You can do this,” John said as he stood just outside the bathroom. Roger was shaking, eyes flowing. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t have this. He wanted to do what he always did. He wanted John to live.

“Turn off the light once, like the therapist said and then you can check me from head to toe. I’ll be alright,” he continued to coach, a hand reaching out to rub Roger’s shoulder.

Roger’s finger trembled as it reached for the light switch. This was his first task. Turning on and off the lights just once. It was only one thing, and yet he wanted to throw up at the thought of it. His mind kept racing with all the what if’s.

“What if I get hurt?” he said shakily.

“I’ll patch you up,” John said immediately and assuredly.

“And if you get hurt?”

“Then you’ll patch me up,”

Roger sniffled, staring at the stupid light switch. Just once. Just once can’t kill someone, right? Can’t make Queen fall off the charts? It can’t, can it?

“C-Count me down,” Roger said, steeling his nerves.

John opened his mouth to start the count down, but stammered before starting again. “Four, three, two one,”

Roger flicked the switch, a sob coming from his chest. He ran out the bathroom and into John’s arms, shaking like a leaf. John held onto him, rubbing his back, congratulating him for his first step.

“You did so good, Rog. Brilliant. And look, everyone is alright. Nobody is hurt. You see? You don’t have to be so tense. Everything is perfect,”

It took Roger an hour to calm down, John ushering him to bed. Maybe after that good cry, he could sleep at a proper time and without the aid of medicine.

Roger preferred to be the big spoon most nights, since that’s what protectors did, but tonight, John was able to wrangle him into being the little spoon.

John snuggled into Roger’s neck, rubbing his chest, cooing soothing words into his ears. Until he fell asleep. Without a fight or struggle. He fell asleep for the first time in months without panic, without intrusive thoughts, without worry.

“You’re so strong, so brave. Roger, I love you to bits. I’ve got you, alright? You’re never gonna be alone. We’ll get through this,”

It was only the first step, the first night. There’d be many other challenges to face. But Roger felt ready to tackle them. He had John by his side keeping him afloat. Not the number three. Just John.

#i used to have ocd (don't ask how i got it treated) and this was me brain all day #i'd count my heart beats instead of things tho #roger #ocd!roger #joger #dealor #Anonymous

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