haunted

by unloveablehand

Summary:

Seduction has been a hunting strategy for centuries, a game of temptation where Abby remains firmly out of reach, faraway from the actual sting of desire.

And it’s not like he wants to notice the neighbor they now share a building with, she just gets really hard to ignore once he pinpoints her energy, feeding an ache he thought was long dead.

He wants to touch, to have a little taste and he's not shy to work for it.

Chapter 1: shame will eat you but it won't purify you

There’s a human on the roof, which might not be all that strange, he supposes —Abby, this new name he’s still trying to get used to—, humans like to toe the line of their own destruction regularly. He even has vague images floating about, somewhere where his soul used to be, of doing the same. But there is not supposed to be a human in this one particular roof, since Jinu apparently secured the top floor for them to navigate this world and the human-ish bodies it requires with some degree of security.

She’s like every other human, except there’s smoke rising from her, mystifying for a second before Abby recognizes the scent of tobacco in the air.

Oh, Abby thinks, naughty.

At least she does look a little apologetic when she turns, having finished her cigarette, and spots him standing there, half silhouetted against the night sky.

“Sorry, you’re one of the new tenants, right?” her voice is hushed, momentarily husky from the smoke, “we’ve been using the roof as shared space since the penthouse was unoccupied, but I’ll get out of your hair now.”

The reaction is unusual, Abby’s experience in this world has been either admiration or wariness, the rejection inherent in knowing what he is, so this sort of detached politeness makes him look closer. He even leans in, edging his body into the closest light, in case the problem is that she hasn’t taken the whole picture in properly.

“I’m the only one who comes up here, anyway.”

It doesn’t work in the way he expects, but he does get a smile out of her, slow and crooked before she bows politely and heads past the private elevator for the emergency roof access.

Abby watches her retreating with vague curiosity, until Gwi-ma's voice slithers into his mind, just loud enough to be heard over the tapping of her sneakers on the asphalt.

' Not charming enough for her, huh? It was bound to happen someday, I mean there's not much to offer beyond muscles'.

"What?" the neighbor stops dead in her tracks, looking at him like she can see the fire burning behind him. And Abby might be used to Gwi-ma to the point that pretending to be unbothered as he whispers in his ear is second nature, but he stills at the acknowledgement in her eyes, stands up straight under her scrutiny.

"Hm?" he answers in the end, non-committal as he can manage.

"Sorry," her mobile face shifts into a frown, though her posture remains relaxed, "I thought you'd said something—"

"I— You can keep coming up to smoke, if you want."

The words are halfway out of his mouth by the time he scolds himself to keep quiet, and his slip up is rewarded with a surprised laugh under her breath.

"I'll take you up on that, I'm not exactly built to ever kick a bad habit."

She doesn't explain herself further, just lets the door creak shut behind her, leaving Abby rooted to the spot in a silence that's almost disconcerting.

...

The neighbor is a weird one, it becomes more and more obvious with each encounter.

Doors opening at three or four in the morning, mysterious bruises seen only in passing, that one time Jinu forced them to use the entrance cause they ran into her getting out of a cab out front, and the clean script that spelled hospital on a folder as big as her torso.

It’s not like Abby wants to notice her, she just gets really hard to ignore once he pinpoints her energy in the building. When she’s close and he focuses on her, he can hear her singing under her breath in the terrace she uses as a garden, can feel the goosebumps racing down her back when she steps into a warm shower, feeding an ache he thought was long dead.

He wants to touch, to have a little taste.

Seduction has been a hunting strategy for centuries, a game of temptation where he remains firmly out of reach, faraway from the actual sting of desire. So it’s a bit unexpected to feel this body’s uncompromising demand for release.

More than once he’s had to reacquaint himself with an orgasm, physical, solid, muscles tight until he’s spilling over his own stomach with the smooth expanse of the neighbor’s skin in his mind’s eye.

Then he feels her one night, laying in bed, because they might not need to sleep but the alternative is dying of boredom. And this night the neighbor is home early, deep in her human routine. Familiar and predictable, except for the sweet sound bubbling up into Abby’s awareness, the rustling of sheets, a gasp, the easy slide of her hand between her legs.

He settles in deeper, turns to press his face into the pillow with a smile, and she’s delightful. He can see her, vulnerable as she is now, her body naked and warm, arched as if she’s welcoming him when he moves through the layers of reality between them.

Claiming each moan for himself is easier here, his back against her ceiling and golden eyes shining from the darkest corner of the room. There’s a beautiful change in pitch, too, needier like she feels the pressure he brings into the space. Abby edges closer, it’s way better to actually take her in, how she moves, instead of the phantom image of it in his mind.

For me he thinks, though he knows it’s a lie he tells himself, he’s a shadow here, she can’t know beyond maybe a chill in her bones.

Her fingers pick up speed, hips canting against the mattress, almost there. Then she opens her eyes, catches his, magnet pulled, and comes with a single word that has him retreating back to his bed, heart pounding.

“You.”

Chapter 2: come back, even as a shadow, even as a dream

Summary:

Abby's not gonna pretend he isn't sick to the bone of keeping aware of craving even a glimpse of the neighbor. She's simply not there, which is worse than whatever he could've expected after the last night he saw her.

Until he finds himself in an elevator with the very human he's been thinking and all her secrets.

By the second day without a sign of the neighbor, Abby volunteers to make a snack run, one more of the strange rituals they've gotten used to, up here. None of them ask Jinu where the money comes from, they just blow it on the endless amounts of human food they haven't been able to try in centuries. Even the whole production of walking colorful aisles, picking out whatever catches their eye is entertaining most of the time, but today Jinu's nowhere to be found, Romance was too busy choosing a new drama to watch and Baby was a half puddle on the floor, trying out new designs on Mystery's nails.

So, Abby offered, and he's not gonna pretend it wasn't because he's fucking restless. Sick to the bone of keeping aware of every shift in the building, craving even a glimpse of the neighbor, or the sound of her heartbeat from her apartment.

She's simply not there, which is worse than whatever he could've expected after that night.

Gwi-ma loves to dig in the wound, too. It chatters on, loud in her absence, something or other about him being too stupid to not to overplay his hand. There's a thought Abby let's glide through his awareness without much pause, though, a dangerous notion he hides as well as he can from the demon king: that the voice is significantly quieter when she's around.

Abby focuses on the drink he's bought instead, for mental background noise, he's decided he likes the fizzy energy drinks over iced coffee. If he's gonna have to blend in, he's gonna indulge in his artificial fruit flavors; peach, this one is supposed to be, were the label to be believed. It works, as a very distracting train of thought, so much so that he doesn't really notice the familiar figure in the elevator until he's halfway in. And then, the first thing he sees is a bright drop of red on white sneakers.

Horse blood. Abby'd recognize the scent everywhere, has seen the hilarious reaction goblins have to it enough times that he chuckles involuntarily. Then he follows his line of sight from toe to thigh to face and the lift doors are closing behind him and the very human he's been thinking about.

There's something unspoken in her stance, the way she steps further in to accommodate his size, nodding at him like it's all the greeting they need. The pieces click in a second, late nights and vague injuries, paired with the heightened perception and the neighbor's laidback disposition when faced with the strangeness that surrounds all five of them.

Shaman.

He would've never guessed, shamans tend to come in packs, in his experience; most have apprentices or are apprentices themselves, operating so one always has someone else's back. It explains the bruises, he figures, if the neighbor is out there alone. The thought sits weird in his chest, heavy in the pit of his stomach, hot like rage.

"I thought you'd moved out." The tone Abby chooses is casual, bordering on overly friendly. Because, in the end, he knows her quite intimately, doesn't he?

He gets a smile in response so lopsided that he wants to consume it, keep it in his mouth so he can memorize the texture and the taste.

"You've been watching," she outright grins this time, all teeth. Human, but sharp enough to catch a hold of him.

"Have I?"

It'a bluff he wants her to call him out on. But the neighbor simply glances at her shoe, at the way he doesn't flinch about it, nods like she's cataloguing this moment for later.

"Has anyone told you you have really pretty eyes?" Her question lingers for a second longer than it probably should, long enough for Abby to fish a convenience store napkin out of his pocket. He bends in the small space, crowds her against the corner, using those eyes she likes to hold her in place while he swipes off the red from her sneaker. "Gold really suits you."

Abby doesn't exactly freeze, but he does pause, looking up at her as if they're not stuck together in a moving box, on a ride that can't last more than the next few moments. It's quiet in his head, dead silent, so he does one more thing Jinu would probably bite his head off for. Patterns flicker over his skin, crawl up his neck in a flash of purple; her gaze close on their heels.

"You're a messenger—"

"It took you long enough to realize it, shaman."

It's a thing of beauty to see her face shift from surprise to confusion, to offense. Her brow furrows, not the kind of resentment of the hunters at his very existence; more like the expression Jinu makes when Abby ribs him on his lyrics.

"All of you up in the penthouse?" she sounds annoyed the way one gets at a friend, looks at him without fear. "No wonder I've done seven cleansings just this week. I have a hairline crack on a rib, you know? Someone's dead relative threw me into a tombstone."

His hand closes into a fist around the napkin as he resists the impulse to spread his palm over her side, keep it as a barrier between her heart and the world. The basest part of his nature claims her as his, now that he's had a taste of her. His to keep, his to feast. For as long as he likes, without Gwi-ma's intervention.

"At least business is booming." 

"Someone just paid me in dirt."

The shaman takes a step towards him, close enough to bump the toes of her shoes against his, so he can see the burlap sack tucked behind her and the laugh that comes out of him is mostly a rattle in his chest. His awareness narrows to the softness of her breath brushing against his throat, to the sudden point of fangs against his tongue. The elevator dings, though, like a horn in his mind, and the neighbor retreats with a sigh.

"This is me," she moves, but Abby's faster, darting his hand past her to hold on to the sack of dirt.

"I'll get this to your place, it's heavy right?"

…

The bag doesn’t weigh a thing, in fact, Abby has to resist the temptation to throw it over his shoulder, and the neighbor while he’s at it. He behaves though, walks down the hall like he’s not obsessed with draping an arm over her shoulder and pulling her back into him. He drops his shoes and the dirt just inside her door, the giant bag of snacks that still hangs from his elbow, on her kitchen table. And he stands there trying very hard not to look like a dog waiting for a cut of meat.

“You seem very relaxed about the demon thing.” Abby watches her shed layers, uncovering the sweet, vulnerable line of her neck, her arms.

“There’s usually not a lot for me to do, once one of you decides to show up. All me and my sweet rice can do is distract you.”

“We are hungry beasts.”

Another knowing smile is sent his way, as she finally stops, facing him across the expanse of five or six steps from one end of the table to the other. Behind her, a dark hallway calls to him, the concentrated energy of her beating like a drum against his chest, making his control on this non-threatening form slip by increments.

"There's nothing to do about us, even when we show up in your bed?" He edges forward, his body inching closer, like he's trying to appease a prey on the edge of bolting. But his shaman doesn't move.

Her posture is relaxed, eyes dark on his. And he doesn't see a meal —hasn't for a while, he has to admit—, he sees a wild thing recognizing another.

"I wanted you in my bed," it's a simple confession, no frills and disarming as all hell. "Still do."

The first real taste of her is not exactly as he imagined. He expected the smoke, the fruit sweetness; not the surprise of a deeper current of something grounded, woodsy. Electric like her lips moving against his, a burst of laughter against his mouth that turns him into nothing more than flesh and talons. There's no strategy in following into her bedroom, no plan beyond getting her out of her clothes; his own shirt lays abandoned at the door and he seriously considers shredding his jeans, before her smart hands make quick work of buttons and zipper.

He doesn't know when the kiss ended, but he moves to rectify it immediately, stumbling onto the bed on top of her with the razor points of his claws holding her trusting throat. Her fingers find his hips, the plane of his stomach, and the sound she makes is shameless, keening satisfaction.

"Please," begging isn't surrender for her, that's clear when it falls out of her so easily; smiling through it and sneaking her touch under the waistband of his underwear.

That he does rip off, which makes her giggle, bright and airy and unexpected. Then she's back working his cock, skin on skin now, weighing him in her palm and muttering nonsense into the silence of her room. It's a kind of contact Abby hasn't had for so long that he groans an inhuman noise. He feels drunk on her, her energy dripping off his tongue like honey when he licks her nipples into peaks. Forced to realize the kind of dangerous game he's caught himself in. The insidious thought that he will never want to give this up that dictates a melody in the back of his mind.

His tip catches on her entrance then, guided, welcomed, so he shoves with his hips until he's bottomed out and his shaman's halfway off the other end of the bed. Fuck, it's easy, even if it knocks a curse loose from her.

"Filling me so right," her good humor holds as she scrambles to cling to his shoulders, sweaty strands of hair framing her smile.

"Taking me so well."

He shoots back, finds his rhythm. One that turns her grin into little hiccups and bullies her into an orgasm he feels before she can even warn him, tightening around him and dragging him along with her. Coming all over himself is not the same by far; here he makes the apartment lights flicker for a second, goosebumps rising almost painful on his skin and drinking in deep from what seems like endless reserves of her soul.

"Told you gold looks good on you."

The neighbor reels him back, cupping his cheeks in her hands. She doesn't flinch at the dull purple of him, just kisses him again, pulls him down onto the pillows with her 'till he loses track of time.