Zeke the Freak

I punched him in the head. "You ruin my cutest bra, and I'll kick you halfway to impotence."

He glared, tail flexing under my back, arching me against him. "You think your threats hold any sway over me?" His teeth were stained with my blood.

"I'm going to Hell for this, aren't I?"

"You're already in it, maggot. The least you can get is a housewarming gift." He kissed the space between my decolletage. I gasped.

"Bastard!"

"Indeed." I was enveloped in darkness. His monstrous form disappeared. The wicked angel embraced me, with his legs twined into mine.

"Do you always wear jeans under the tacky black robe?" He ignored me. Sam caressed my spine, trailing kisses down my chest, to the hollow under my throat. His lips healed my wounds, glowing with warmth.

"Would you stop criticizing my fashion for once in your flea year life?" He pressed me into the wall.

"No," I raged.

His lips burned as they circled my face. He clutched at me greedily, hands harsh as they roved my body. He smirked, skimming my mouth with his. I opened mine, gasping for breath. I ached in places stupid to ache, and suddenly believed in the existence of vapors. Unwanted swooning was no longer only the territory of repressed Victorian ladies.

"Oh my god," I gasped, senses overloaded. I was beyond the point of horror.

"I'm your god?" he taunted. I nearly shrieked.

"You're attacking me, you idiot- gyah! That's not supposed to be so!-"

"What?" His fangs skimmed my ear. "I can play your nerves like a puppet's strings, drive you to ecstasy with a thought-" he cursed, scowling. "Son of a gorgon. I sound like a damnable leech."

"Aaah?"

He played me like a violin. Albeit a stubborn one, that repeatedly struggled against him, but an instrument, nonetheless.

"Don't! Stop? - Oh, sweet god."

"There's nothing holy about this." He looked at me quizzically. "I forget how pathetically sensitive mortals are."

"AAAAH?"

"No, that's no better. Either form coherent sentences or don't speak to me at all." He smiled a shit-eating grin. "You're an abysmal conversationalist, you know."

"I'm trying to scream for help, you idiot. Go screw... yourself... ack! STOP IT."

"Screw indeed." He observed me like I was an experiment. I shivered uncontrollably, seeing multitudes of stars. He snapped his fingers, demanding my attention. But I, senseless, was beyond response. His face darkened: "Perhaps your neural circuitry is fried."

"You stopped." I gasped. "Why? Wait – what in Seven Hells am I doing!"

"Base whatever, I suppose. Why humans compare copulation to baseball I'll never know. It's as sporting as dying slowly of gangrene."

"No, Samael. That is not how it works. You are completely psychotic." I accused him. "And I thought you liked the Yankees."

"I like New York. That, and those quaint hot dogs." He said 'hot dog' like it was an exotic disease.

I was sure I was turning green. He eyed me oddly. "What?"

"You just went full out Alucard on me. I hooked up with the Reaper."

"Your point?" he fumed, voice cutting. His arms clamped around my waist. I wanted direly to escape them.

I frowned. "I just kissed a corpse snake demon. I don't even know if it was willing or not. And I really don't know what to think."

"I'm NOT A CORPSE," he roared. He stormed away from me. "Damn you, maggot." He snarled, shaking with rage.

I retched. Breakfast covered the ancient floor. I looked at my omelet forlornly. Samael continued cursing.

The door opened. "By my troth, Lord of Flies, pesking guests buzz at thy door!" crowed an all too familiar voice. Samael and I paled in unison. He dove in front me, draping me with his wings.

"Puck!" he cursed. The satyr bowed low, smiling crooked as he let the guests in.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FURRY THING? I screamed internally. A SATYR???

"I scurried high and low for thy rottingness, and I'd nay bet my gander on here," Puck said, obviously proud. I watched through the crook of Corpseboy's wing, fighting down my revulsion. Samael whispered something - the air around me sparked.

"You're hidden," he whispered. "Don't move."

The air sung as Michael entered; his presence illuminated the shadowed hall. His hair was braided back and he wore a crisp blue suit. An emerald shone in his ear. His tawny eyes pierced Samael. The archangel smiled softly. "You slithered off early, wyrm. We located Bella."

Samael shrugged. "Someone stole my car. What's a demon to do?"

Michael scrutinized him. "By the Queen of Angels," he said sharply.

"What?" Samael spat.

"Your cheeks. They're... red." Michael mused. He analyzed him, running his fingers over the hilt of his sword. "Were you exerting yourself? That I'd live to see the day Death blushes." Michael whistled lowly.

Samael seethed. Michael was taken aback. "Zadkiel!" Michael called. A young angel with a mop of dirty blonde hair strode in, grinning easily.

"Yep, general?" he asked, smiling. He laced his fingers together, stretching. "Sweet Lord, this place is depressing. I've seen better décor in death row."

"Zadkiel, my brother-"

"We're bros, Mish?" The angel raised his brows. "I thought you loathed slang, general."

"Not you. My twin appears distraught. Your analysis?" Michael adjusted his tie, smiling quietly.

Zadkiel shrugged, dusting off his sports jacket. He cocked his head, then looked at Samael. The angel's lips curled in disgust. "You," he said coldly. His eyes flashed. Suddenly, Zadkiel changed. The weight of his gaze slammed into me like a truck, not even aimed at me. He focused on Samael. Dissecting him. He looked revolted. "He defiled himself with a woman. But what to expect from scum?"

Michael's lips drew thin. Zadkiel laughed, hatred suddenly gone. He thumped Michael on the back. "But of course, you wouldn't think of that, general. You're too..." Zadkiel searched for the word.

"Fond of livestock," Samael said acidly.

Remembering Michael's stolen kiss, I suffered in my own private hell. This was a nightmare, plain and true.

"A maiden?" piped Puck. "By King George's head! The snake woos Eurydice, she runs and flees! The snake slithers in, the maiden pleas-"

"STOP SINGING, PUCK," Samael boomed. The satyr froze mid-cartwheel; he hand-standed out of the room. Zadkiel and Michael ignored him. If I had not been prisoner in my own private hell, I would have noticed Zadkiel was exactly my type of man: leanly muscled, blond and sporty...

"He's hot," I noted. Corpseboy's fists curled in rage.

Michael cocked his brow. "You're acting more ridiculous than usual. Shall I have Raphael brew you an enema?"

"Don't mock me," Samael spat.

The archangel raised his brow. "Your retorts are weak as well. Diagnosis, Zadkiel?"

"Impotence."

The two high-fived each other.

Michael turned to Samael; composure restored. "I'm leaving Bella in your charge, Samael. As my general, Zadkiel will perform routine checks on the First Seal of God's reincarnation. Take care of what you do with Shannon now that she is in such a – a fragile state. I'll visit when I can to make sure she hasn't gone mad from your abuse."

And you, seemed to be his subtext. Michael's voice was firm, absolute.

"So, she's my charge," Samael said wearily. He turned to Zadkiel, Samael's eyes raw. "The girl has suffered enough. Give her the respite she needs. Heaven owes her that."

Michael sighed. "There is none, when the War is eternal."

Samael tensed. "Only because we make it so."

Michael smiled sadly. "And you have the solution, Samael?"

"I tried once," he said through gritted teeth. He unconsciously touched his empty hollow of a heart. "It was my greatest failure."

Michael nodded, grim. Zadkiel looked highly uncomfortable as the twins communed silently.

The general spoke, soft as a sigh. "We each have our burden to bear."

"Is that all?" Samael asked.

"Yes, brother. It is indeed. Godspeed." He embraced Samael in a brotherly fashion. Samael did not move his arms.

"Chillax." Zadkiel mock-saluted Death over Michael's shoulder.

They departed.