HUSH HUSH HUSH /Weston

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Here comes the Boogeyman.

Angel Dihanie was not a creature who put much weight into things. Not into her school work (waste of time), nor fashion (no one dresses like those runway models, and the ones who do look so so so stupid), nor peoples opinion of her (why would she was a bunch of time impressing people she did not know and probably would not like if she did?). She had her group of friends- shameless Ripley, innocent Tommy, secretly savvy Sykes (alliteration!), enigmatic Tate, unpopular Cash, somberly endearing Alexander, and of course the ever loyal Weston who was always Jack to her. Those opinions matter. Those opinions held weight. But there was one other. Her Daddy.

You would never know it of course. She was a stubborn girl, who spoke little of her Father. Long ago- or so it felt by the young girl who was barely shy of sixteen- they had been close. But, alas, as puberty set in, Angel became more difficult to handle. Her refusal of ADHD medication, mixed with poor impulse control and general mischief wore hard on Daddy, who also had to worry about an agoraphobic recluse of a son, as well as a family owned record store and recording studio. That was why Angel was sent to Baum, along with her childhood best friend Weston. She would be supervised here, Daddy assured himself as he flipped through the brochure. It was worth the money. But, as gambles were bound to do, it did not pan out quite as expected. Angel still had poor impulse control and caused general mischief. Only instead of dealing with it first hand, child to parent, he had to deal with (on average) three phone calls a day from distraught teachers at their wits end. His generous donations certainly helped keep her little butt in school.

But it was at a price. The relationship between father and daughter had grown more stressed than ever before. As evidence by their weekly phone calls, where Aleksandr would sigh into the phone and speak in his native tongue. Mind you, this only occurred when he was disappointed. Therefore it didn't need to be said. All she needed was "Bună Zia, dragă. Av em lucre pantry a verb desire." And the air of the conversation was instantly pronounced. Angel would then listen to what was expected of her with stony silence, and end the conversations with "Tati revedere, te iubesc." and hang up without allowing the words to soak through. They would melt away with a joint, like candle wax.

But not today. Today Angel snapped back, informing him that she was not perfect. That maybe she would not rebel as she did, if he didn't want so much for her to be a perfect lady like her Mother was. That maybe, he could go fuck himself. Keep in mind, Angel was not one for swearing. True, she would associate with those with the most colorful of language. But she'd rarely indulge herself. Today, was one of those rare moments. An hour and a half later, with her voice hoarse, she finally hung up the phone.

Her hand reached for her trusty tin, but she- for once- had no desire to smoke out her troubles. Oh, she wanted them to go away. But she doubted her THC laced friend's power right then. Angel sat on her bed, head hanging, cheeks stained with the eyeliner and mascara had applied that morning, staring at the run in her star tights which revealed her mocha flesh beneath. She hugged herself, hugged by the sweatshirt and cotton shirt dress, and twined her fingers in the feather necklace she wore.

She had told her Daddy- in that awful conversation- that she wished it had been him who died in the car accident almost eight years ago, and not her beloved but memory faded mother. But that wasn't true.

She wished it had been her.

And with that thought, Angel felt herself break down again, tears falling freely in her solitude.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

This wasn’t like her at all. Well, the worry—that was perfectly normal—but the unresponsiveness. Always, she answered him. Call, telepathic signal, whatever; sometimes she kept him waiting just long enough to cringe, but never like this. Never for so much time, even early in the morning or late at night. He never called more than once (texts were horrible, impersonal things Angel was ever so far above in his mind), because long ago he’d learned that not only did it do nothing to hurry the process along, but usually only ended in a grumpy, stubborn Angel he only wanted to be around seven-eighths as much as the normal one.

He’d waited an hour before doing anything. Sat around, played his guitar a bit, been generally thankful Xander, Tramp, and Tommy were nowhere to be found, listened to some music. The usual passive, mutedly bored flailing that came with having nothing to do when Angel was not around. Sometimes, he was accused of being obsessive. Pathetic. Either way, he didn’t put much weight in the comments; they’d known each other for longer than anyone else, after all, and it was just plain nobody’s goddamn business what he did and didn’t do when he was and wasn’t with her. He knew how he felt, and why.

When the minutes had begun to tick by with the pace and monotony of a very slow metronome, he’d decided there really wasn’t any other option. Besides, what could she possibly have been doing? Well…there were plenty of options, as this was Angel, but nine out of ten of them made his stomach flip so violently he’d rather just pretend they didn’t exist at all.

Phone left tossed on the unmade bed back in his own dorm, Wes made his way to Angel’s, trying very hard to convince himself that she was probably just sleeping. It’d happened before, after all. Hardly anything would surprise him.

He knocked lightly upon reaching the door, twisting the knob and entering cautiously before she could tell him whether or not it was allowed. “Hey, Sal—”

Brown eyes flicked their way about the room until he saw her, curled up in a state that very nearly made him nauseous to imagine, let alone see right in front of him. It was his job (unofficial or not), after all, to make sure she never shed a tear a day in her life. Brow furrowing, he snapped his mouth shut mid-greeting and hurried to her, closing the door behind him with his foot—no one needed to see this, even by accident.

“Come here…” Wes’s thin, pale arms wrapped around his best friend as he sat beside her on the bed, not looking for permission to give her what she so obviously needed. He held her tight, kissed the top of her head lightly, very much feeling a failure for not having been there to stop this—whatever it was—before it’d even begun.

“You wanna talk about it?” the words were soft, whispered into her hair as he held her, not really caring either way, so long as the black stains running down her cheeks were wiped away. That was how it worked. Whatever helped her, he’d do. Always, and without consideration.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

She didn't know how long it took before Wes showed up, but she wasn't surprised when he did. He had a way of knowing there was something wrong with her always, after all. An instinct, a spidey sense, a connection. Whatever you wanted to call it, Weston Broderick had it when it concerned Angel Dihanie. Maybe it was some sort of debt he felt he owed her, after being around after his dad took off. Whatever his reasoning was, Angel was usually grateful. But right now, she felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. She'd run out of tears to spill. It was all so empty now. Like she was a used ice cream container, left out in the trash.

Still, she submitted to his arms wrapping around her, and the lips against her hair. Her Jack was always so good at affection, yet she could only stare at her words laying limply at her sides. The effort was too much. She felt exhausted. He asked if she wanted to talk about it, and suddenly a bitterness came to her: No, she didn't want to talk about it. "There's nothing to talk about." Poor Wes. He was use to her brutal, tactless, honesty. Not this hoarse and guarded creature. She didn't hide anything from Wes.

And that seemed to be what did it.

The air in her lungs felt like they were vacuumed out of her, and her body lurched away from him. Confusion was in her eyes, and for a very split second fear. It was a moment she shared with Weston as she searched frantically for comfort in his warm, black, eyes. But before she could, it all went black... There was just this peaceful nothingness. She fell back, eyes half closed and devoid of light or life for a good minute.

And though life returned, the light was still out. With three, solid, blinks Angel woke up. Her chocolate brown eyes had faded to a solid slate black. Touching her face, she took a quick swipe of the smeared make up, staring at it in her hand, almost perplexed. And then, oh then, her eyes flashed to him. What a strange creature, this boy was, who stared upon her so lovingly.

Angel would have found it touching, but what was there now looked upon it with apathetic confusion. If it was able to empathize, it would certainly not care too. Still determining what was happening, the fresh black eyes peered at the boy closely.

Waiting.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Even now, with her crying and his complete and utter lack of a clue as to what was wrong, Wes couldn’t help but think this felt right. Being this close, at least. So maybe he was a sucker. Or a fool. Either way, it wasn’t as though realizing that (which he hadn’t, because he found both ideas to be completely ridiculous at all points in time) was going to change anything. He’d never get up and leave Angel. Not if she was pointing a gun to his head and yelling for him to do so, or else she’d pull the trigger. Maybe he’d blink. Close his eyes, whatever. But he sure as hell wouldn’t move, because that’d only make two things in the whole situation horribly, horribly wrong.

So when she spoke, naturally, he nodded. If she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t have to talk. Eventually, no doubt, she’d tell him. Still, he couldn’t help but furrow his brow slightly at her voice, and the fact that never, under any circumstances, did she hide things from him. Not the little things, and certainly not the things worth crying about. He held her tighter for a moment, and then she did something even more unthinkable and twice as nauseating—she lurched away.

Wes’s arms hovered in the air for a split second before falling to his sides, confusion etched on his face as he looked at her, dark brown eyes searching hers for a hint of what he’d done wrong. Nothing. She was just as confused as he was. What came next—that spit second of fear that seemed to emanate from her core—did nothing less than stab him. Seeing Angel sad was one thing. Seeing her afraid…Well, that was always, always, without a doubt his fault. He was just opening his mouth to ask what was wrong when she fell backwards, and immediately he was at her side, hovering over her with the sort of concern only those in danger of losing their other half could posses.

“Angel?”

Weston Broderick did not panic. He took things in their stride, let the weight of the world roll off and rest on his shoulders instead of chip them, and took great care to invest all his passion and time into very few things in life. One of those things, perhaps the most important thing, happened to be Angel Dihanie. And as he hovered over her now, pale hands stark white and slightly clammy as he gently cupped her cheeks in his palms, Wes couldn’t help thinking how none of this—whatever it was—would have happened had he come to check on her but ten minutes earlier. If he’d run, instead of walked his way across campus.

“Angel? Come on, Sally, what’s the matter? It’s not—Shit. This isn’t funny—” soft though his voice was (as always), there carried a weight to it now that showed he was not at all in the mood for messing around. Not that he’d blame her, once she snapped out of whatever the hell this was.

And then of course, she blinked, and he breathed. Wes sat back a bit, exhaling deeply as moderate calm came over his still-worried face, where his brow remained knit. There was something different about her stare when she woke up—Wes knew her too well and was far too observant not to notice—but the relief at her not staying collapsed was far too great for him to really bother worrying. He ran his fingers through his hair, little relieved smile making its way over his lips as he stared at her, unaware that his heat had been beating so rapidly in his minute of worry.

Licking his lips, he spoke softly, gently, not wanting to warrant more tears or another…whatever the hell that had been. “You okay?” he reached his hand out slowly, resting it just above her knee without taking his eyes off her, searching her stare for the source of this all.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Boogie was free.

Boogie wanted to eat. Boogie wanted to feel. Boogie was trapped. The black, hijacked, eyes stared at the boy above her- yes, her, apparently Boogie was a girl this time, as it became aware of mounds places they had not been before, and others missing from where they belonged. Oh, the creature was not discouraged, not at all. It mattered not the gender, though this boy watched it's new form with such close detail. He must know girl. The eyes watching it were dark and caring and soft, analyzing every movement, speaking to what was his friend. Was Boogie okay? Boogie was better than okay. Boogie was free!

Ignoring the boy's words completely, it's slate black eyes became center focused on his lips. Shapely, conch shell pink, full for a boy. Her own lips opened, letting out a little breath. It was a strange noise, clearly feminine, both aroused and confused. Her lips hovered over his, inhaling his breath, chest rising to graze his, intrigued by this body in front of Boogie. After all, Boogie must explore. Grabbing the boy's face, Boogie's lips pressed into his, kissing the boy's pink conch shell lips roughly, tongue grazing the inside of his mouth. Oh, it was delicious and primal, just as Boogie liked it.

And then Boogie was done. Hand clamping tightly onto the boys face, the bored little monster shoved him roughly away with such forced it caused the girl's narrow body to flip on to her stomach and the boy to crash to the floor. A throaty laugh that did not belong to Angel Dihanie, as the creature began to examine this body. Sniffing the hair, caressing the body, leaving no metaphorical rock left unturned.

Yes, yes, yes. Boogie could work with this, yes it could. As it rose, Boogie removed the sweater that felt so confining, and stared at the boy in front of it. Ah, this boy... Who was he? It didn't matter. Boogie's toy, if Boogie wanted, and that's what Boogie wanted. Of from the bed, Boogie dived on to this boy, who's only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "No Angel. No Sal. Nothing. Just Boogie." Hissed the creature with a bastardized version of Angel Dihanie's voice. With a quick swipe, Boogie licked up his face, before slapping him hard.

The smile was purely gleeful.

The laugh was girlish, almost whimsical, and dreamy.

The next slap came down with another loud crack, colliding with the boys other cheek. "Say no Boogie no. Boogie won't no, nonono. Boogie will yes all Boogie likes, but Boogie likes to hear boy wibble his words." Tauntingly, Boogie grabbed a fistful of black hair and yanked. Not enough to dislodge root from scalp, but enough to have cause for a bottle of asprin. "Girl gone, Boogie here. Sad boy sad, cry?" Another girlish peel of laughter, before rising her hand, poised to land another strike against the surely Weston.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

He’d be a fool, now, to say nothing was wrong. An imbecile, to attribute it all to whatever had upset her earlier. Unfortunately, in this moment in time, Weston was exactly the latter and infinitely more. He watched her closely, feeling a slight heat flood his cheeks as Angel’s eyes flickered to his lips and lingered there. Not that he minded. He was a boy, for one, and to say he loved this particular girl would have been a grotesque understatement. So instead of backing away, Wes stayed still. His dark eyes flickered over her, watching with a strange mix of curiosity and anticipation as she leaned closer, acutely aware of the fact that their chests were touching, and she never wore a bra. Whatever this was, he wasn’t about to speak and ruin it.

Closing his eyes, Wes leaned in to complete the kiss only to find a hand where a mere half-second ago he’d been sure lips had been. Before he could fully react to her grip on his face, however, Wes found the lips he’d been searching for pressed against his, and he responded immediately. Who was he, after all, to question this? If it was what Angel wanted…well, who was he to bend his rules now? For a wonderful, near-visceral moment, Wes kissed Angel Dihanie with the sort of desire that kept him up at night.

Then, he found himself thrown off the bed in front of her, flat on his ass, confused.

A crease ran through Wes’s brow as he looked up, eyes obviously hurt even as the little red mark from where her hand had gripped his cheek began to fade. “What the—?” he began to scramble to his feet after a few seconds of shocked silence, watching as Angel began to sniff her hair, look at herself like a—well, he didn’t quite know how to describe it, but the look in her eyes was surely primal. Naturally, it did more than just alarm him.

Before he could get all the way to his feet, however, Wes was tackled. He found himself flat on his back, staring at Angel with a mixture of shock, confusion, and momentary anger.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he breathed, eyes wide as she leaned closer, momentary fear flashing beneath them at the sound of this utterly inhuman voice. It was Angel, although it most definitely was nothing like her.

Confused as he was, Wes did nothing until she slapped him, his hand reaching up to hold his cheek as he glared at the girl, hurt lingering very near the forefront of his eyes. He was just about to open his mouth to say something when she hit him again. Wes’s breath caught sharply as he sat beneath this Angel-who-most-definitely-wasn’t and listened to her speak again in that same, unearthly voice, the words nonsensical in the most eerie way.

“OW!” he let out an involuntary yelp as she yanked hard on his hair, squirming to sit up better so as to give himself more slack, already feeling the sharp panging of what was sure to be a gargantuan headache. “Angel, stop it—” he moved his hand to grab her wrist in an attempt to jerk his hair from her grip, but to no avail. It should have been easy. Momentary alarm flashed over Wes’s face as he looked into the eyes that weren’t hers and winced again, loudly, hand still clamped around her wrist far tighter than he’d ever cared to force Angel into anything. Still, it did nothing. Wes’s eyes began to water as he squeezed them shut for a moment, fighting the reflex that came with any extended exposure to pain.

“Ow—Seriously, let go! This fucking hurts!” he opened his still-wet eyes to look at her, felt his heart skip in an uneasy way at the sight of those black, primeval eyes he’d never seen before on such a familiar face.

“Come on…” His voice was hoarse, quiet and begging when he addressed her again, refusing to call her “Boogie” if only out of sheer denial. Better to have Angel hurt him than someone like this; he wouldn’t believe she was gone. Cruel jokes were better than none at all. His eyes widened again at the sound of her laughter, still nowhere near Angelic, as he flickered his gaze between her eyes and hand, giving the one still clutching his hair another yank and wincing at the subsequent shot of pain.

“Don’t—” whether the word had any point, he honestly didn’t know.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

His words meant nothing to Boogie.

Harder than even before, enough to send a shooting pain up her arm, Boogie let out a wallop of a slap, anchoring his head by his hair with her other hand. Watching the dark red color blossom over the pale cheek, Boogie smiled, releasing the thick black hair. Only, it wasn't a smile. Not really. More like a dog, baring it's teeth, Angel Dihanie's pearly whites were all put on display. Leaning forward, Boogie grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into his skin tightly. "Boy listen. No Angel, no more. Boogie here, boogie forever." With a hard shove, she pushed his face away with the same amount of gentleness she had been allowing before, dark eyes lingering down his neck.

Such a pretty neck, such a beautiful neck. Boogie loathed beauty as much as it loathed order, and the tiny hands of Angel Dihanie wrapped around Weston's neck. Excitedly the girl breathed as she felt his life force: His blood pumping frantically, the flesh grow warm, the breathing grow sparse. Her fingers bore into him, certainly bruising the flesh beneath, eyes full of gratification.

Boogie was not a creature with great knowledge of the humane emotions. It stared, with a scientific gaze, at it squeezed Wes's airway tightly, breathing in shallow huffs of excitement. There was no fear in the slate like eyes, no empathy, no remorse. Though Angel herself was not one plagued with worry or nervousness, this creature knew not the meanings of such words.

His face changed color two, starting a gentle pink to red, then the dark red to purple, before a blue tinge finally reached his lips, and Boogie grew bored. Releasing, she watched now the colors return, before touching his neck gently with her index finger. "Fun fun fun, boy is fun. Boy don't die, no no no. Boogie want..."

Boogie want.

Boogie want.

Boogie want.

The dark eyes scanned the boys face, the teeth barred smile falling into a look a greedy wonder. Yes, Boogie want. Taking his face into her hands, Boogie's hands kept their forceful nature, but held an inexplicable delicacy now. She leaned closer- so close in face that her lips brushed the folded cartilage of the ear as she whispered to him, her warm breath spreading and filing the space like water. "Boy want too, Boogie sees. Boogie sees all things, and sees boys want for girl. For Angel. Poor poor poor lonely boy, no girl to touch. Boogie touch, yes, Boogie do." With greedy lips, Boogie kissed down his jaw. They were not exactly fleeting kiss, nor unskilled. One could describe them as hungry, but this would be a great disservice to the word and an underestimation of Boogie. Her kisses were starved. Each one was more seeking than the last, and less desperate than the one to come.

With a knowing, almost smug though not quite, gaze Boogie stared into Weston Broderick's deep black eyes as their lips hovered over each other. Her legs rose to prop her body up properly, as she let her hands slide down his thin chest and tug at the shirt he wore. Almost insulted by the presence of the fabric, Boogie dug her razor like nails into it, tearing it down the middle.

There was only flesh, as her hand touched against the belly, eyes never leaving his. The hand explored the dips and lines of Wes's chest without Angel's precise knowledge of this area, quietly fascinated for a moment, before resting it's palm against Weston's heart. Bump, bump bump. She could feel it. The life of it all excited her greatly, and with lips that threatened to touch his with every word, she announced with great confidence- never mind the beating only a minute before- "Boy wants too..."

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Wes yelped loudly again as the hand made contact with his skin, eyes welling more as the stinging pain of impact spread over his cheek. He reached his free hand to cup his cheek, head falling backwards when she released his hair, other hand rubbing the spot where she’d been tugging. Glaring, Wes watched her, although there was certainly fear in his eyes as well. That smile—snarl, whatever it was—made him cringe. Such sickening looks were not meant for Angel’s face. He caught his breath when she grabbed his jaw, listening with darting eyes as she spoke in that same, horrible voice he knew would give him nightmares from here on out.

“Stop it,” he shook his head while it was still in her grip, the words coming out slightly muffled from the way she was holding his jaw. “Angel, listen to me—”

Before he could get out whatever sort of panicked wisdom or pleading reason, however, her hands were on his neck and he watched, horrorstruck, as she began to squeeze at the flesh beneath. He gasped for air, acutely aware of her cold, little hands pressing against his skin, the feel of his pulse as his body pumped blood through him, begging for oxygen, the seizing of his lungs as it was refused to him. Wes watched those dark, lifeless eyes with horror, hurt, and pain of more than just the physical; it might not have been Angel, but it was still her face, and that dark, primal glee on her face as she squeezed his windpipe very nearly killed him. Some of the water building in his eyes began to well over, and he found a very thin, foggy spider web of blackness had started spreading inwards from the sides of his vision.

Then, she let go.

Wes gasped. Harsh, horrible, rickety sounds fell from his lungs and onto the floor as he sank back, the tingling in his head fading ever-so-slightly as he found relief in fresh, sweet, desperate air. Wes closed his eyes, the beating of his heat intensified by what seemed to be tenfold. His deep, black eyes shot open at the feel of her fingers on his skin once more; despite the sliver of fear in his eyes, however, he did not turn away. The warm breath that was still Angel’s—it had to be, for who elses’s was it?—caressed his eardrum, and he found himself listening intently, imagining with a sort of horrified reverence that this was in fact Angel, at least partially, and maybe, just maybe, she was telling him it was okay, the things he thought about her. They weren’t bad things, after all. Just boy things. And he loved her, truly. There was no faking that; had he not, and he would have been up and gone before her fingers had even come anywhere near his neck.

And really, if he still cared, that had to mean she was still her, right?

So it was Angel, then, whose lips were touching his skin like she was drowning and she was air. It had to be Angel, because only Angel and only the thought of her ever made him feel like this, so simultaneously empty and full and wonderful and hungry. It had to be her. No one else could make her feel like this if they tried. So it was fine, then, that his sharp intake of breath was not one of fear, but anticipation, excitement and enjoyment, for Weston was a boy, and ever so much enjoying the way she sat in his lap, and the feel of her lips and her fingers and the touch of her cool hands against his chest, like white hot fire.

Bump, bump bump. Bump, bump bump. Bump, bumpbump, bump, bumpbump.

Wes watched her, now very certain that this was at least in some way Angel’s doing, as she pressed her hand to his chest, felt his heart quicken in the way it always did when she sat with him, close to him, kissed him. He swallowed, looking into the eyes that he could now imagine had the slightest tint of familiar brown in them and nodded minutely. She was right. Angel was always right.

Then, in a movement that was slow and sudden all at once, Wes leaned forward and kissed her. The sting of his cheek and the bruise of his throat and the throbbing of his head seemed to fade, softened by the intensity with which his lips met hers as his fingers rose to intertwine with her hair, tongue sliding into her mouth as he kissed her deeply, greedily, in the way he typically reserved for half-forgotten dreams.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Boogie was victorious, as the boy kissed back, sending forth all the frustrations of years of repression into a kiss. Perhaps he felt a little victorious as well, given the way he watched this face. It was like a dehydrated man finding water, a godless man finding God, a religious man being freed from God. Inhibition was gone. And what was left? Hunger! Hunger was what drove Boogie. The hunger for sex, the hunger for food, the hunger for violence, the hunger for satisfaction. And though Weston may have convinced himself otherwise, Boogie was not kissing- a great injustice to what was happening now, as their tongues grazed and their breaths mingled, and their tongues tangled- him out of affection for his person. He was merely available and ready.

Easy.

Her teeth, though in appearance were the same, had sharpened during the transition just as the life from her dark eyes had been snuffed out. She nipped at him, between kisses. Narrowly missing his clever tongue and tugging on his lip with unseemly delicacy. Certainly it would sting him, though Boogie was unable to care. It was not an evil being, but it was most certainly selfish. It's own pleasure was it's prerogative, and if he managed to get something from it as well, it was purely accidental.

With a sharp inhale, Boogie's lips wandered to his jaw, pulling him tighter against this new body. Oh, rapturous feelings! With a quick movement, Boogie's lips trailed down his jaw, biting sharply. Skin broke, and blood dripped on to Boogie's tongue. Before the boy could pull away in pain, Boogie's arms tightened around him, and she sucked the blood deeply as if it were the elixir of life. Like sucking on a penny, her tongue tingled gleefully, as her fingers laced into his hair to anchor him close. It was sweet, like candy, the sweat and salt on his skin contaminating and enhancing each lap. When it would bleed no more, Boogie pulled away slightly, a strange smile playing on her lips as she caught her breath.

Being a creature of greedy desire, Boogie continued on, lips reaching his neck, returning to the same starved kisses as before. Yes, yes, she was drowning and he was air. All of the feelings and want were rushing out of her like a dam breaking. Kissing down his chest, she followed the kisses with her sharp nails. Though they barely grazed, the keratin blades left red raised marks down his starkly pale flesh. As she lowered herself over him, she looked up, head cocking like a cat as she reached for his belt. Boogie wanted his anticipation, and watched with her lightless black eyes, barred tooth grin in place.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

He loved her, he really did. It was something he’d realized around puberty, although in all honesty Wes believed it’d probably started from the moment they met, when she first shoved him down in the dirt for refusing to kiss her back when he was five.

Easily the dumbest decision of his life.

Right now—this feeling, this taste—was what he’d spent years waiting for. Wishing for. Dreaming of. He’d gotten it once, and it had been glorious and awkward and wonderful and beautiful and holy and had never happened again. Not even close. They’d kissed since then, yes, but never like that. And even then, it hadn’t been like this. This was beautiful. Painful too, he found after she nipped his lips once, but all the more wonderful for it.

He winced slightly at the feel of her teeth as they broke the skin of his jaw, but there was a rush too, as she pressed her lips against his skin, like rising immediately after being punched. The world spun, and he was woozy, but wonderfully and acutely aware of just how close she was, and the feel of her shirt’s thin fabric on his bare chest and God, she could keep her fingers knotted in his hair all day, if she wanted, just so long as she stayed this close. She didn’t even have to kiss him. She could keep biting, for all he cared, just as long as she pressed herself against him and didn’t leave.

Grinding against her slightly, Wes closed his eyes as her kisses moved from his throat and down, onto his chest. He inhaled sharply as her nails raked his skin, holding the breath there until she finished, whereupon he exhaled deeply, somewhere between relief, exaltation, and disappointment. Eyes flickering open, he stared at her, breathing quickening along with his heart rate. He could feel her knuckles on his lower abdomen, just above the band of his boxers. She could do it, if she wanted. Unhook the belt, unsnap a button and undo a zipper. Pull them down.

It was so simple.

Black eyes met black, and Wes stiffened slightly. There was something about them—the way they watched—that made him blanch. Something ostentatiously foreign, and yet eerily familiar. Primal. There was a quality to them that was Angel, yes, but larger was one that was strikingly not her. It was sick, observant, and stomach-riling, and he couldn’t help but second guess his previous decision to kiss her.

Still, this was Angel before him on some level; he had to believe that. If he didn’t, what else did he have? So, little breath sliding its way from his lips, Wes nodded minutely at the demonic Angel in front of him. Even with the sound of his heart throbbing its way to his eardrums, Wes couldn’t help but think that maybe that grin was a tad too gargoyle-like for his tastes. He paused mid-nod, lips pursing slightly as the movement changed and he shook his head. Left, right, left, right.

“Stop.” He was calm, almost eerily so, and the word came out so softly it practically floated. For a split second, he almost regretted speaking. Surely, he’d ruined it. But this wasn’t Angel, he told himself, and it would be using her and tainting himself and wrong, ever so very wrong to do this with her now, here. It’d be sick. And worse, cruel.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Stop?

Stop?

Stop.

Boogie didn't WANT to stop!

The smile instantly fell from her face. There wasn't even a shift, as her face went from it's large smile, to a strong snarl. And had Weston found the smile to be frightening, than the snarl was terror. Her eyes went a shade darker, her lip- which had just been in the throws of passion- was now curled with a great fury, her nostrils flared, and her body stiffened into a pounce like stance.

Stop.

With a quick swipe, Boogie let her claws drag against Weston's chest. Not the gentle rake from before, but a stern and heavy strike, shallow cuts forming, with blood starting to bloom from it's depths. And then she let out the most angry, shrill, scream she could muster; it tore at her throat and pained her ears. "BOOOOGIE NO WANT!" She shrieked violently, stalking up his body, before landing a heavy punch against his face. With another strike, her hand zoomed past it's face, and it's fresh staining bruise, landing hard into the thinly carpetted floor. Leaning closer, she hissed animalistically into his face. "Make Boogie stop? Boy Will pay..." Hopping to her feet, Boogie's narrow eyes looked around, calculating.

First the computer, which was pulled to the floor, screen cracking down the center. Then Angel's papers- the homework she had half started- flew across the room. More tender to Angel's heart, the posters came down in shreds. All of her favorite bands: Sons of the Illustrious Father, Elevator Fight, Bright Eyes, Flobots. Now shreds. Boogie's razor nails dug into the wall paper of the dorm, four scratch marks, never-minding the blood soaking into her fingertips from the stress. Books were ripped apart, dustables were broken. None of it felt like enough.

And then she spotted the cages.

In all of Angel's room, the cages were the best kept thing. Obviously, these were things that were thought of tenderly. The glass had a clean sheen, the habitats were carefully maintained. One spider, one banana slug, one large cockroach, and a small colony of ants. Slowly, with tiny graceful steps, Boogie approached the cages. The face of anger melted as she got closer, watching the bugs with a studious fascination. Pressing her palms and nose against the glass, her darting eyes watched the tarantula crawl around.

Innocent.

Never knowing even a second of pain or suffering.

Boogie's lips curled into a cruel smile, face turning to Wes. She wanted him to know exactly what she was going to do, but be completely unable to stop it. With a swift movement, she pulled down the cage, tiny shards of glass sticking into her feet. The pain was meaningless to Boogie. The vengeance was delicious, though. With a victorious roar, she yanked the other cages down, feeling her foot squish down on Gregor the Cockroaches hard exoskeleton. Banana George was dead by the fall, body twitching with a large shard of glass sticking through it. The ants were about to get it, when she saw a Little Lottie attempting to retreat to safety. Her eyes locked onto Weston's...

Angel's most prized possesion were being consumed by Boogie. Like a cancer.

Grabbing a shard of glass, pointed like a blade, Boogie's hands wrapped around it, cutting Angel Dihanie's palm open. Sinking to her knees, Boogie's large, primal, grin returned, and a little girlish giggle escaped that pretty face. "Say bye bye, Boy-"

SHWACK

The glass fell with surgical precision onto Angel's arachnid friend. The girlish giggle turned to a cackle, as she twisted the glass, and reached forward, tearing the legs off in glee. "Bye bye, Bug."

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Terrifying didn’t even begin to cover it. The snarl was bestial, inhumanly sickening on what was to Wes the prettiest face in the whole of the world. This creature—this thing, whatever it was—had taken Angel and twisted her into something almost unrecognizable. That, perhaps, was the most petrifying bit. He knew Angel. Knew her better than the back of his hand, and twice as well as anyone else he’d ever met. This wasn’t her, and was never going to be; he could only hope she’d come back, one way or another.

Frozen with horror, Wes did nothing but widen his eyes as he saw her hands move towards his chest again. Loudly, he yelped again when she scratched him, instinctively squirming away in a manner that only dragged her nails further down his chest. He clamped his jaw hard, so hard in fact that it began to tremble as his eyes welled again, the fresh cuts blossoming and blooming with every breath he took; they didn’t stop growing even as he clamped his hands over his ears. In a manner very much like a child hiding from a monster—an act Wes had never been accustomed to doing, though he’d coached both his younger siblings out of the mindset many a time—he clamped his palms tight over his ears, eyes squinting shut. Had it not been for her presence atop him, he probably would have drawn his knees up to his chest. Such was the abnormality, the freakishness of it.

CRACK.

The sound of Angel—no, not Angel’s—fist as it made contact with Wes’s face was enough to shatter across the room. Being already so close to the ground, the blow’s impact was increased significantly, and he found the back of his head falling back hard into the thin layer of carpet where it smacked mercilessly, although there was no cut to be had upon impact. He blinked rapidly, hand reaching upwards to dab lightly at the bruise he could already feel forming. She punched again, and he flinched away. Mercilessly, it wasn’t him she made contact with, but the space of carpet dangerously close to where his ear had just been. Still, her words burned him.

Wes wasn’t afraid of Angel. Not usually. Not ever. Afraid of losing her, yes—terrified—but nothing else. This threat, however, uttered from Angel’s perfect lips, stung him more than any pristinely sharpened blade ever could.

Wincing with the subsequent stretching of the skin on his chest, Wes pulled himself upright to watch as the little Lord of the Flies moved, flinching as the computer came crashing down from the desk. The noise it made seemed to snap him out of whatever shocked silence she’d gotten him into, however, and soon he was scrambling to his feet, the feeling of the blood’s little streams as they trickled down his chest fading to nothing. This had to stop. She was going to hurt something—someone—herself. She was going to hurt herself. Wes wasn’t about to have that on his conscience. Not when he could stop it.

“Stop! What’re you—” It was useless, pathetic pleading and he knew it. A very physical stabbing seemed to go through Wes at the sight of Angel—or this thing using her—hurting her, ripping the thing she loved off the walls, tearing her fingers to shreds. It was all his fault, too. Or at least partially.

Seeing her head tilt towards the cages, Wes froze. Horrorstruck, he stayed still, watching her as though she was a bomb about to explode, one he might be able to disarm if only he knew the proper code. He watched her almost curiously for a moment. Assessing. Then, his eyes widened with realization. Horror.

“Don—” he was too far away. Always, he was just one step behind.

He instinctively leapt back a step so as to avoid the glass shrapnel flying from the wreckage she’d caused. It was as though he was literally glued to the ground. Wes watched as the sick scene played out before him; it wasn’t the killing of the roach or the slug that disturbed him though, so much as the fact that it was Angel’s foot crashing down on Gregor’s body, her hands that had tipped Banana George’s cage over. He’d done this. He should have listened earlier. Given her what she wanted. What he wanted, really.

All caution aside, Wes waded his way through the glass, the worn-out soles of his Converse doing little to protect his feet from the minefield. He winced, grimaced and hissed his way over the floor, moving tenderly despite the overwhelming desire to reach her as fast as possible. Stopping this before it went any further—and how much worse could it get, really?—was his main and only prerogative. When he looked up at her again she was staring at him, the large, blackened eyes clearly soulless and yet filled with an infinite, mirthful something that made his skin crawl. He stopped. Something told him it would only hurt more to move.

Slowly, eyes trying to somehow watch both Angel and the bug at once, Wes stiffened. He stood ramrod straight, realization crashing over him like a wave. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not even if it wasn’t Angel—

He’d never been overly fond of that bug. Never seen what Angel found so appealing in any of them, really. But they were hers, and they way she looked at them like they were worth more than all the pets in the world, the way she cooed to them like they could understand what she was saying…well, let it suffice to say that to hurt Angel by destroying something like that would very nearly kill Wes as well, simply by imagining the look on her face. And he couldn’t have that.

“No,” he shook his head wildly, pleading with this mad monster. “No, don’t. Stop it—”

Too late. The sound of the glass as it stabbed into the spider’s flesh, and twisted, the peal of laughter-turned-cackle was deafening, and Weston found that somehow, it was all keeping time with the steady drum of his heart as he crossed the distance between them, approaching her from behind while she concentrated on her prey. Skillfully, he snatched not-Angel’s hands by the wrists and held them tight, crossing them over the front of her body so as to both hold her still and keep her from being able to stab him. Quietly, almost dangerously, he whispered into her ear, voice hoarse. “Drop it. Drop it now, or I swear to God, I’ll…” what he was going to do, exactly, Wes had no idea. Terrified didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now, and God knew he could never do anything to hurt Angel. Not even if it wasn’t her.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Trapped, trapped, trapped!

The awful boy who had denied her hand her trapped in his arms. She could feel the blood on his chest seep through the dress, forming twisted Rorschach figures. She tried to twist away, tried to lean down to bite him, tried to wiggle the fingernails- already bleeding beneath- to hid hands to catch and claw. When Boogie could do none of this, she screamed. A horrible noise, tearing at her throat, shredding at her vocal chords violently.

"BOY LET GO BOY LET GO! IS HURTING BOOGIE! LET GO!" She hollered, attempting to stomp at his feet. This only proved to push the burrowed glass deeper into the feet, shooting pain up her leg, and causing more screams. Thrashing back and forth, the blood curdling screech did not lesson as she went on, though a certain raspiness edged her voice. Being a primitive creature, it did not occur to Boogie to try and trick Weston into releasing her. It was not a trickster, but impulsive by nature. The gratification is sought was instant and abundant, nothing was ever happened premeditated. So she continued to thrash in his arms; continued to try and throw her weight up and down, side to side.

With a heavy kick, she punted the lid of one of the cages hard, not watching as it sailed across the room and knocked her stereo over. It was of little concern to Boogie, after all, as she was now nursing a broken toe. At least until the music started.

"-him that his lonesome nights are over.
Sandman, I'm so alone
Don't have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream."

Boogie stopped, eyes like a cat who had just heard a predator near by. The words echoed through the room, and through Boogie's skull, her brain suddenly going fuzzy. Another scream, this time frantic, trying with all of her might to drown out the noise. But her voice had grown tired from the exhausting exercise earlier, and the screech lowered gradually as it went on.

"-with a "come-hither" gleam
Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci
And lots of wavy hair like Liberace
Mr Sandman, someone to ho-"

"Boy! Boy turn off! Boy turn off the noise! Boogie no like, Boogie no like! Hurts Boogie! HURTS!" The beast pleaded, eyelids drooping, body growing gradually slack against him. Sleep, she didn't want to sleep! She didn't want to go away! The prospect was more painful than the glass in her feet or the drywall lodged in her nails or even the broken toe. Her knees buckled, sinking into the shard ridden carpet, fighting it as best she could. "Boy help Boogie! Make it go away! Make bad noise go away!" It stung her ears, but she was left too tired to react against it.

Boogie was trapped.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Determination surged through Wes as he gripped tighter on her wrists, pulling them so taught against her stomach that for a moment, he very nearly felt guilty for it. Well, he did feel guilty. Restraining Angel from anything equated to nothing less, and it was obvious he was hurting her at least slightly. Still, this thing—this Boogie—was hurting her even more, and he’d go to hell and back before he let it do any more damage to her, who he loved more fiercely than quite possibly anything else in his life.

Eyes shut tight, he pulled her tighter against him as she screamed, although the movement only seemed to make it all worse. Tighter, he squeezed her wrists. Harder, he shut his eyes. For a good thirty seconds, he held his breath; as though that would make time pass by quicker. It was a horrible noise, her screaming, and the fact that it was coming from Angel’s throat—coming from her because of him, because he’d chosen to make her stop—only made it infinitely worse. Would she remember this when she snapped out of it?

…If she snapped out of it.

But he wasn’t going to think like that. This was Angel, and she’d be fine after…well, he could fix this. He would. “Stop it!” he half hissed, half growled as she squirmed, his own torso jerking about with her every flailing movement. Still, he held tight. “You’re only making it worse!” awkwardly, he shifted his feet so as to avoid her glass-studded heels, lifting her a tiny bit off the ground. Logical though his shouting may have been, it did as much help as it would have had she been an infant.

When she kicked the terrarium’s lid, Wes flinched. He watched it soar through the air, heard her screeching grow momentarily louder, and could only imagine she’d broken something other than the stereo which it hit. Still thrashing his weight about in an attempt to counter her movements, Wes didn’t hear the music until Angel stopped.

"-him that his lonesome nights are over.
Sandman, I'm so alone
Don't have nobody to call my own
Please turn on your magic beam
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream."

He knew the song, of course. Knew it by heart, had it on his iPod—the whole shebang. Angel did too, obviously, as Wes flat out refused to listen to the modern shit they played on the radio when he spent time in Angel’s dorm. Apparently, she’d kept the oldies station on. Not that it mattered right now. Currently, all he cared about was…

"-with a "come-hither" gleam
Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci
And lots of wavy hair like Liberace
Mr Sandman, someone to ho-"

[/i]

…but she was stopping. Surely, it wasn’t the song? Somehow, of course, he knew it had to be true—there was a cool feeling, somewhere deep in his gut and spreading slowly up to his head, which told him so. Slowly, Wes loosened his grip on her, not bothering to answer her raspy, pleading voice. He waited until Angel had closed her eyes for to sigh, more relieved than he could possibly tell. Gently, so carefully that she might break, he lifted her up from behind the head and knees, carrying her to the bed where he set her down on the covers.

It was only when she was out of his hands that Wes noticed how violently he was shaking. Near-constant tremors were making their way over his body and he felt cold, clammy and hot at the same time as the music still weaving its way through the room settled over them like a blanket. Wearily, he slumped his shoulders. Tired, trembling palms worked their way over his closed as he sat still for a moment and let The Chordettes work their magic.

When the song ended, he straightened, a deep breath rattling in his still-shaking lungs as he glanced back towards Angel, whose eyes remained closed. She couldn’t wake up like that. Not with the glass and the nails and the…oh, God. What would she do when she saw Gregor? Or worse, Lottie? The thought was nauseating. Tenderly, so as not to wake her, Wes crept his way to the bathroom to gather a towel, which he then wet with soap and water without pausing to look at himself in the mirror. He could feel the bruises and cuts well enough; no need to see them as well.

There was a sad frown on his face as he took the spot next to her on the bed, gentle in his attempts to remove the shards of glass and drywall from her feet, knees, and fingernails. It was careful, cautious work centered around not stirring her, though he had the strangest feeling that so long as the music was playing, whatever monster had previously been here would not return. The song had changed, and now Buddy Holly crooned to them though the speakers. Wes sang along under his breath, more of a whisper than actual singing, and certainly to keep his mind off of the past events instead of enjoyment. It did that, music.

“Everyday, it’s a gettin’ faster,
Everyone says ‘go out and ask her’—”

[/i]

His voice was hoarse, shaking horribly and thin, quieter even than his typical speech, and trailed off into nothing as he finished pulling the last shard he could find from the sole of her left foot. For a few seconds after he’d finished, Wes simply watched her, biting his lip. Still shaking, he leaned forward to plant a small, light kiss on her forehead—so light, in fact, that his lips only just touched her skin—before sitting back into his previous position, a few feet down on the edge of the bed. Elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands, he waited for the inevitable and as the seconds ticked by, the glass in his own feet only seemed to throb further. Still, he did not move. He wouldn’t, either, until she did.