Well would you look at that? I just can't stop typing. Anyway, here's an example of Damien being the one to give comfort for once in my one-shot series. Still like it better than multiple chapters in one fic but we'll see.
I came home from school and threw my shit on the floor. My textbooks make a booming echo downstairs that probably would've disturbed my parents. If they were home. Who fucking cares.
Life is shitty today. Life is shitty every day, but this day is particularly shitty.
It was just one of those days when everything goes wrong. Like, literally everything.
First I got a letter from the last college I was waiting to hear back from. Nothing but denials. I didn't get once single acceptance to the 4 schools I applied to. My grades are good, they're great! But not as good as some others I know, one who shall remain nameless, who is already early admitted into Yale. His rich parents probably paid for it for him anyway.
On top of that, I got fired from work BECAUSE I was calling out so much to agonize over studying so much. I need to study because I would need financial aid and scholarships, but I need to work because I FUCKING NEED FINANCIAL AID AND SCHOLARSHIPS! This one seems like my fault. Everything seems like my fault. Everything is always my fault.
I'm also spiraling down again. It's a shitty day because I haven't felt this way in years and it's dangerous and I don't want to be alone. But as luck would have it, I am alone. I'm almost always alone.
I want to call on him.
I want to feel his arms around me and smell the smoke in his clothes. I want to look into his almond eyes and whisper things against his bow-shaped lips. I want to drag my tongue along his pointed ears and listen to him howl my name.
But I won't call on him.
Because I would feel like his problem.
I know I'm being hypocritical here, I was telling him recently how he's so strong to ask for my help when he needs it, and I meant every word of it. I'm the kind of person who sees everything positive in someone else, and turns it into a burden when it weighs on myself. Yeah. Hypocrite. That seems about right.
It's not like I've never called on him before, I've needed him so badly in the past and had no problem with it. It's just because I feel this way. This dangerous darkness that spreads in my soul so rapidly, I sometimes wonder if he really is no match for my demons.
But I know what he'd tell me. He'd ask me, beg me, to let him help me any way he could. He's got a big heart like that. I remember when we were kids and he fucked up meeting everybody for the first time because he let his anger get the best of him. Coming from the 7th layer of hell, he didn't know any better. And when Mr. Mackey sat him down and told him that's not how to get people to love him, he changed. And he tried, until everyone saw him as more of a harmless, troubled boy than anything else. He's sweet like that.
But I can't ask for him. I should, but I can't.
I spend the next hour or so "handling it" on my own, which consists of laying on my bed, legs dangling off the edge, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think or cry. I know this isn't healthy. So in a moment of strength, I say his name.
"Damien." I whisper into the darkness, thinking I could take it back if I wanted to. As much as I was on edge when I thought he'd come and break up my pity party, I was severely disappointed when he didn't show. Anger courses up through my body and rises out of my mouth. "Fuck! Damien! Damien! Damien!" I scream his name three times in rapid succession, needing just to scream more than anything else.
I am, however, surprised at how relieved I am when his hellish apparition poofs itself into the corner of my room — wings flapping in inexperience as he struggles to get a handle on them… like a newborn deer trying to use it's legs. It makes me smile.
Seeing my taunting expression, Damien lets out a chuckle and defends himself with "they're still new to me!" He pouts as he tries to spin around himself like a dog chasing his tail and it makes me full on laugh. He suddenly shakes his shoulder blades and his wings retreat back inside his body, God knows where those enormous things get stashed.
"You look cute when you're working demon-puberty out for yourself."
"I know, I did it mostly for you. I've gotten quite the hang of these dumb things" In order to make his joke land, he pops his right shoulder and a wing comes protruding out. He moans with fake drama of "oh, would you look at that!" and "get back in there you!" It makes me laugh even harder and I almost forget why I called him, almost.
"You're a dork," I smile and shake my head lovingly as he expertly shoves his wing back into it's socket.
"I know," he smiles goofily and strides over to me, "I wanted to make you smile". He coos gently and brushes my face with his fingertips. "What's bothering you?.. oh! And hello" he awkwardly and goes in for a quick peck on the lips, with just a little tongue. That's one of the things I love about him: when Damien's not on his game, he is so, so off his game.
"How do you know I'm upset?" I challenge him first, because I don't feel like talking about me just yet.
"You forget I can see you." He taps his head in what must be referring to his brain? But really it's a monocle-type device that he lays over his forehead like a shitty-Cochella-headdress. He showed me when we first started actually dating. He says it opens his third eye. I just told him he looked really pretty in it, which was received as less of a tease and more of a genuine compliment in his naiveté — which only made me fall for him even more, the dork.
"So you knew I was upset? Why didn't you come the first time I called you!" I'm not really mad, and he knows that. I just need to yell sometimes. We all have things we need to work on.
"You said it so quietly, I didn't want to risk it being like last time." He huffs breathily in my ear as he pulls me closer to him, "or maybe I would love that." My face grows hot remembering what he's referring to. A late night 'insomnia cure' shall we say, that led to me moaning out his name when I wasn't actually calling him. Lucky for both of us that he showed up though, because we quickly turned that night around, and that's actually the first night he fell asleep in my bed, something he became accustomed to doing whenever I allowed him to. I chuckle sourly and push him away gently. I called him for a reason. "Hey." He nudges me softly. "What's wrong Amica Mea?" He purrs into my ear. Again with the dead languages, with this boy.
I swallow the desire that bubbles in my chest every time he speaks Latin to me, and I suddenly feel silly for calling him over. But I tell him. I tell him everything and he just sits cross-legged across the bed from me, listening and nodding and offering little tidbits here and there when he can. He listens to me, and he helps me, and he doesn't try to shut me up by kissing me. I genuinely feel much better when I've finished venting, but Damien is having none of my moping until I'm smiling and laughing in his arms again. I know this cynicism isn't like me, but it's how I used to be, and while I don't like it one bit, neither does my boyfriend. Suddenly I'm scooped up in strong arms and being showered with a plethora of kisses (much like when he first told me he loves me).
"Pulchritudo," he's purring Latin to me again and there's nothing I can do to stop the curl of my toes. This is what I need right now. We've already talked it out. We've talked it out until I can't talk about it anymore, and now I just need him.
I wrap him in a tight embrace and pull him down on top of me. I snake my arm around his neck and slither my tongue into his parted, ruby lips. I run a hand across his clothed chest and I tug up the collar to tell him to take it off. He obliges and I meet him with another feverish kiss before he can make his way all the way back down to me. I pull him on top of me and wrap legs around his torso. I'm tousling and pulling his hair gently as our tongues do sinful things inside each other's mouths, and it's not until I bite down hard on his bottom lip than he groans and attempts to push away slightly with his left arm so he can get at my neck.
What happens instead though is as his elbow bends to hold up his weight on that side, a huge wing pops out of place and nearly knocks over all of the contents of my dresser.
"Fuck! Oh shit, sorry!" He pants as he tries to simultaneously store his wing, clean up the part of the dresser within reach, and also not let go of the arm that's hooked around my waist.
I'm already laughing at this point, there's no going back. I'm rolling around on the bed, unable to keep my cool, and laughing like a hyena at my angel's clumsiness. He's laughing with me, and in a moment we are both in hysterics and unable to stop.
When we finally finish giggling to ourselves, Damien is lying next to me, shirtless, chest heaving from laughing, and the most joy I'd ever seen on his beautiful face. And by the way he's looking at me, I'd say he's thinking similar thoughts about me.
I kiss his left cheek sweetly and rub my palm against the slight stubble peeking out on his other side. "Thank you for coming." I whisper gently. He grabs my face and caresses my temple longingly, as if he's scared this is just a dream and he'll wake up soon and I'll be gone. "You really helped me, I was feeling… pretty awful before… you always make me feel better."
Being the predictable, sensitive boy that he is, Damien's eyes started to shine with tears as he planted kiss after kiss against my forehead, temple, jawline, and collarbone — making me moan and grab onto him desperately with that last one.
"You always save me, even when I'm the one helping you." He bashfully admits as he buries his face in my neck, suckling at the soft flesh he finds there.
My breath hitches in my throat and builds up uncomfortably with desire. I swallow the tension and gasp as his tongue starts tracing it's severed tip along my neck. I moan when he bites down on my tense shoulder muscle, and relax when he works his mouth down my arm, aiming for my hand. He laces our fingers together and kisses each digit of mine. I've never seen someone so intent on worshiping the one they love. And God do I worship him right the fuck back.
"I love you" I coo to him as he finishes kissing the last knuckle on my pinky finger. Instead of doing something sweet like — I don't know — saying it back, he instead grins wolfishly and chuckles with an:
"You've always been the one to say it first."
You ass.
I roll my eyes and scoff at his dumb memory. He turns my hand over and plants a kiss into my palm. He trails all the way back up to my face, a long process that I do not mind at all. He finally kisses my lips and whispers against them, "I love you, you're my everything, and I will always do everything I can to make you understand how much I love you."
Leave it to a half-demon boy to be the most romantic sap I've ever met.