ahHHH. First things first, big thanks to ProMa, K and Laura for the more grueling beta work. Big thanks to Julie, Amanda, Ash x2 and Lunar, too, for reading over it and leaving me feedback/funny comments/love! It kept me going. The BIGGEST thanks to K for keeping Spirit off a segway.

Happy resbang! Please don't expect deep, intricate plot stuff. This is glorified fluff and smut.

ashsocolourful and peregr1ne have been wonderful artists partners and I love them sooOOo very much. Their stuff will be on their tumblrs whenever because they're not crazy like me and post right at midnight.

He hates his fucking life.

Violet Baker grins at him, ruthless and toothless, before shuffling down the hall after an old man with a walker and eternal urine aroma for a rousing game of bingo. His first thought isn't what the fuck am I doing here? or did she seriously just grab my ass?, but instead, where did she put her dentures?

Revolted, he tugs his hat further over his ears and wonders when hugging sexually frustrated elderly women became the norm for him.

The nursing home reeks faintly of mothballs, but mostly overpowering floral perfume and the generic fresh cotton scent that comes from cheap, off brand candles. The discomfort that resonates in his bones would will him out the door, if it wasn't for the fact that the line for free hugs has finally run dry and he doesn't feel quite as fragile anymore. He has to pick his battles, and the embarrassment of being blatantly objectified by the elderly outweighs the horror of passing out due to starvation.

He really fucking hates his fucking life.

But sitting and crying about it won't solve his problems, so he jabs his hands into his pockets and focuses on sucking it up instead of wallowing in his misery. A nurse looks on in pity, shuffling by in her tanuki-printed scrubs.

"How're you feeling, big guy?" she asks, quirking a meticulously shaped brow. "Dizzy?"

"Lightheaded." But not awful, thank god. He can still stand on his own two feet without wobbling, and he isn't being stuffed into saggy, wrinkly cleavage anymore.

She leads a hand up his forearm and cups a shoulder. It's not as good natured as it is flirtatious, and her fingers sprawl and smooth over the fabric of his shirt. A chill runs up his spine and he shudders. "I could help with that, you know."

Kim looks at him a lot like she's a hunter and he's the prize. It's so backwards, almost offensively so, and he can almost feel his dick withering and concaving into his body. Her lashes are long and dangerous, coated with a third layer of mascara and mischievousness; Soul's no stranger to Kim Diehl's lingering glances and advances but there's a startling, resounding part of him that vehemently rejects the idea of getting in her pants.

And it's not just because her girlfriend breathes elegance and puts Soul and his limp sex drive to shame.

"Uh, I think I'm good," he coughs into his hand. "Hasn't worked before so I doubt it'll work now."

"Oh please," she rolls her eyes. "The last time we tried, you pushed me off the bed and tried to seduce me with your Netflix account and a bag of peanut M&Ms. You didn't even touch my boobs."

"How am I a bad person for not touching your boobs?"

"Because I have an awesome rack?"

He makes a face and wobbles his hand; Kim's nose flares and he retracts at once, regretting everything and praying to whatever damned god or demon is listening that he'll survive her wrath. Banter sounds off down the hall - it must be dinner time for the residents - and she tears her glance away.

Soul's shoulders fall.

Objectively, he knows she's not wrong. He can appreciate the beauty of her body and all it has to offer. The way her hips flare and bosom swells brings men and women to her feet alike, and there's no way she needs his validation to feel good about herself. The girl lives and breathes confidence and sensuality, a proper example of what Soul should probably be.

The problem has never been not finding her attractive. He knows she's hot shit (and so does she, of course) but he can't bring himself to want her. Not in the way he's supposed to, anyway. Not in the way her girlfriend desires her, not in the way his brother desires everyone. Kim is legs and hips and tits but he feels no stirring in his pants or flashes of heat on his face.

"Can't you just whip something up for me to take?" he pleads desperately. "A potion, or a cure, or - shit, anything?"

Her brows knit together and she hisses "No," to him, tugging him down to her level by the collar of his jacket. "I'm a witch, not a miracle worker. If you want a cure, you're better off going to the big kahuna yourself and begging."

"You know that won't work." It hasn't worked yet, and he's been barking up that tree since he turned eighteen - several years ago. "There's gotta be some other way."

"Sorry," she says, patting the side of his face gently. "I stay in my lane. Mischief and transfiguration? Sure, hit me up. But changing your blueprints without permission from your higher ups? Not really my place, Soul."

"I can't keep living like this."

Her eyes soften noticeably. It's eerily delicate for Kim, who takes candids of her mostly-naked girlfriend and sets it as her SnapChat story.

"... You know, since you feed off of sexual energy…"

"Kim," he cuts her off, voice strangled and tired. "I'm not sleeping with you."

"- Let me finish! Maybe you could feed off being around people who are going at it. Jackie's coming over tonight, and I wouldn't mind letting you be a fly on the wall if it means fixing those sunken in cheekbones of yours."

There are about seven things wrong with what she just said and Soul has the mental capacity to handle exactly none of it. He rubs his temples and shakes his head, heaving out a ragged breath before chuffing out a "no," and follows it with "god, no, what?"

"It's just a thought!" She pinks. "It's worth a shot! You look like death, Soul, and you still don't have any horns to speak of-"

"Did you even ask Jackie first?" He watches as she deflates. "Didn't think so. Thanks, but no thanks, Kim."

"Just trying to keep you alive," she huffs. Really, he should probably be more thankful - nobody's forcing her to offer him entry into her bed, and he knows she's not truly as greedy and thirsty as she makes herself out to be - but he can't find it in himself to stop grimacing.

He's a terrible person and he's cranky, sue him. Being an ass is probably allowed in this situation. Kim might be down with his business, but Soul knows for a fact that her girlfriend is a hundred and ten percent not about the penis lifestyle. She'll thank him later for selflessly turning down Kim's offer and dooming himself to another night of fever dreams about vaginas and actually feeling something other than discomfort and disinterest.

Soul fixes Kim with a wary half-smile and jabs a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the line of elderly people shuffling off toward the cafeteria. "Shouldn't you be helping people who can actually be saved?"

She shakes her head and punches his arm lightly. "Your self-depreciation is alarming and you should see someone about it, dickbag."

"Just get out of here before one of them sees me and decides to come for seconds. My ass has already been sampled once today and I'm way past my quota."

If there's one thing Kim takes seriously, it's butts. She props a hand on her hip and raises her brows, and Soul belatedly realizes he's issued a challenge. Of course he can't be the only potentially attractive one in the room. It's all or nothing for her, and she's not one to go out without fight. Before he can take back his unspoken dare, Kim turns on her feet and struts after the line of retired folk, hips swinging seductively, strides purposeful. She catches the attention of ol' Bernie, he-who-plays-checkers-all-day-and-prefers-prune-juice. He breathes fog into his glasses and scrubs the condensation away excitedly at the sight of her in her shapeless scrubs.

"Hooooo boy," he croons, leaning forward in his seat and knocking over his cane. "I wouldn't need annnnyyy help from sildenafil citrate to help the ol' engines start revving if I had a honey like her in my bed."

"I'm almost afraid to ask what your doctor's been prescribing you, old man."

"That's Viagra, son."

Soul wishes he had the same vitality. He shoves Bernie's bald head away and scowls. "Eyes on the game; he's got you stuck in a pin and your flying king's on the other side of the board."

It's a full moon out tonight.

Not one, but two tanned, bare asses sway in time with the low, ragged breathing of his brother. Soul's halfway in the door, one foot in and one foot out and he already wants to turn around and leave. It's six PM and the damned overachiever already has two girls roped in for a night of sexual endeavors, and it's taking place right on the living room floor.

The swing of their hips is a little mesmerizing. Soul stares for a moment, the headache worsening the longer he waits, and wonders if maybe distracting is a better word for what's going on. No part of him wants in on it (his brother is getting his dick sucked, ew?) but they're at least fluid in their technique.

It's just an ass kind of night.

Soul clears his throat and kicks the door shut behind him. "I didn't hear any werewolves howling."

There's a bout of giggling and shrieking before he hears a chime of "Oh!" and one of Wes' lovely ladies turns around. His first reaction is to shield his eyes and look away, because she's not wearing a damn thing and it's probably impolite to stare at a pair of bare tits, even if whatsherface isn't even a little bit uncomfortable with her state of dress. Part of him is jealous - why can't he be that comfortable in his own skin? - but the other says power to her. He does not peek through the cracks of his fingers.

Plus his brother's penis is loud and proud at the moment and honestly, he's seen Wes' genitals one too many times for his own sanity as is. Seeing Wes' junk at all is more than enough for him, really, but they live a strange life.

"Hello, Soul," Wes greets, wriggling one hand away from plentiful bosoms to chance a wave at him. "You're home early."

"Didn't realize it was already dinner time."

The ladies both giggle and snuggle into Wes' hip. Soul wonders why no one but him finds it strange that they're cuddled up on a shag carpet on the floor. It was his turn to vaccuum last and he definitely skipped out on it. Karma smiles upon him for a brief three seconds, right up until Wes opens his big mouth again.

"I was feeling hungry." Liar. Wes is anything but deprived - his skin practically glows with good health and vitality. "So I took the liberty of bringing dinner home."

"No fucking way."

"Soul, that's no way to speak in front of ladies," Wes chastises while feeling up the both of them. They coo and sigh, leaning into his touch, and Soul practically vomits right on the cheesy carpeting and red-and-black decor.

He scowls further and jams his hands into his pockets, searching for his phone. "I'm leaving."

"Oh no you're not!" Wes scolds, and like a leash, Soul is yanked back and rooted to the spot. "You have to eat sometime. It's not healthy to go without for so long. You're never going to grow any horns at this rate, and the only way to fix that is to-"

"Don't you think I know that?" He's snarling now, great, and the two girls practically perched on Wes' dick sink back, eyes wide. "Would if I could, trust me, but it's not so easy for all of us."

Because he knows, very well, what he should be doing. Wes holds out a hefty offer on a silver platter. A willing and eager women, by all means, is a blessing; an incubus lives off of sex and feeds off the sexual energy and spirit of their partners. She's a meal. Nothing would be more refreshing than sinking between her plush thighs and finally doing what he's meant to - physically, anyway. But what the body wants and what the soul wants are two very different things, and he's never been quite able to get out of his own head.

Not like Wes, the damn overachiever. He's never had a damn issue getting it in. He's a primed, healthy incubus. A model study, in fact, with the largest, strongest horns in recent history, fueled by his enthusiastic feeding; his, erm, patrons are some of the happiest customers to known date.

His brother manages to look concerned and believable all the while stroking down bare thighs. Soul mutters "Jesus H. Christ," and whips his phone out before Wes can start fingering the girls in front of him. He needs to look anywhere but the merry threesome in the middle of his living room, and stat. The cellphone is a welcomed distraction, and he maneuvers his way through his contact list with blinding clarity. It's incredible how good he is at texting with the sound of oral sex in the background.

need to get out. you around?

Hopefully Liz isn't out on the town. He rather wants to sink into her couch and watch some b-rated horror movies to pass the time; her screams of horror and disgust are preferable to the sound his brother makes while there is a mouth around him.

"Soul," Wes tries again.

"Dude, pay attention to your, uh, partners," Soul winces. "Don't talk to me with your fingers in some chick."

"Two." He sounds breathless. Gross. "One for me, and one for you-"

"Wes, I love you, but shut the fuck up. Just stop."

He's answered with a low moan and dual squealing. He feels fingers tugging at his pant leg and practically jumps out of his own skin as he stumbles back toward the front door. Soul has no idea who was trying to tug him in, and frankly, he doesn't want to find out. No matter the answer, there's no way any sleeping will happen tonight. Doesn't he have enough stress dreams as it is? Why give himself more nightmare fuel?

Hey, Listen! chimes and Soul opens the text immediately.

hungry? I'm home and bored ;)

She's given him a window of opportunity, an easy solution to his rather pressing problem. Is Liz the answer? Is she salvation in the form of long blonde hair and full hips, or will he choke under pressure again?

"More, MORE!"

It's better than staying home and watching a cheap porno unfold, he decides. Between the wannabe goth and sensual decor of the Evans' shag pad, and the fact that there are two busty brunettes currently taking turns riding his brother's nasty dick, there is plenty of material for websites with too many x's in their url. Soul chances a glance up and watches in horror as his brother manages to preform cunninglus on one girl and have the other ride him simultaneously. Wes works fast.

It must take a great deal of coordination to keep both happy. There's no way Soul would be able to please even one girl at a time. He glances back at his phone with a hardened resolve and a laughably flaccid penis.

be over in 10

She sends a reply as he's busy shoving on his shoes and struggling to race out the door before anyone finishes and realizes he's making a jailbreak. It's a personal victory of his to get out of the door in one piece and with his pants still safely on his person, belt and all.

Soul: 1, Wes: 2 (and counting).

Google suggests wine, sex toys, lube, and massage oils for a hookup. Soul considers it all of five minutes before deciding that asking the bored looking teenager stocking the shelves where the cock rings and nipple clamps are is a Bad Idea and grabs a box of condoms and some cheap wine instead. Pretending that he's a classy motherfucker is futile; Liz knows him too well, and he knows that she's down for a glass of discount wine if she can get her freak on while listening to his virgin sexy time playlist. She gets to hear the debut of the tracklist.

He picks up and puts down a bottle of lube three times, weighing his options. Is it necessary? Will his penis shift and shape itself to please her the best? Should he go for the flavored varieties? Chocolate? Vanilla? Bacon flavored?

Probably not. Liz goes through vegetarian phases; drizzling his dick with meat-flavored penisbutter before sloppily struggling to stick it in would probably be the least sexy thing he could ever do. He buys the classic, flavorless number and shuffles out of the pharmacy, hiding his face like the shameful loser he likes to pretend he isn't. What sort of 21 year old man is ashamed of buying condoms?

Realistically, he should be proud. He's going to Get Some. At last. As in, he's going to hook up for the first time and try very hard not to feel bad about it.

It's not like she's a stranger. Liz has been his friend for years, will continue to be his friend even after he sticks his dick in her, and respects him enough as a person to understand why he asked in the first place. He's literally starving - being an incubus wasn't terrible before he came of age (not having to eat food just enabled him to further his laziness and napping-until-noon lifestyle) but is a legitimate problem now.

He feeds off of the spirit and energy of his sexual partners. Soul has been damned to a life of fucking for food.

He's a virgin. An awkward, bumbling, uncomfortable virgin whose penis is bafflingly uninterested in anything breathing.

And no, that doesn't mean he's interested in fucking the dead - necrophilia is gross as shit. It's just that sex has never been overly appealing to him despite his rank in the food chain. Images of attractive women and feminist oral porn get him going, sure, but actual women and sexual situations tend to wean away his excitement. It's a fine brew of performance anxiety and a continued disinterest; he's broken, a sex demon who doesn't feel attraction.

Part of him thinks it's all part of an elaborate joke. Oh, poor Soul, poor boy who struggles with his raging introversion and people skills, how could things get any worse for him? Let's make him an incubus. And on top of that, let's really fuck with him and take away the part of him that wants to do the horizontal tango.

Liz, of all people, understands, because she's not human either.

Beautiful siren Liz, with the long blonde hair and curvaceous hips. They met through Wes, naturally, because Wes knows everyone in the underworld. He's sort of famous, really, and it has everything to do with the all the fun, interesting things he can do with his penis. Liz, though, can eat normal food and not have to rely on carnal relations to gather energy. Sure, she has an odd taste for blood (especially a man's blood), but she's trustworthy, and her song has never affected him.

She sings beautifully but it doesn't excite him the way it excited Wes, who has bedded his brother's best friend three times. The very same best friend that Soul is aiming to sleep with tonight. There is no reassurance in depending on Liz's song to lull him into security and the hum of arousal. There is only his sheer power of will and the wine.

The universe is cruel and Soul's not laughing. He's scowling, actually, and he feels like his stomach is going to eject itself out of his butt as he knocks on Liz's door and juggles his bag of goodies into his free arm. He arranges his expression into carefully calculated disinterest to hide the way his hands shake and tummy clenches and curls.

"Come in," Liz greets, dressed in silk sleep shorts and a tank top. She's not wearing a bra. Soul gulps. "Quit standing there, it's cold outside."

"You're the one not wearing a jacket," he sputters.

Her grin is playful as she raises her brows and cooes, "I was keeping the blankets warm for you," and he trips, stumbling through the front door. Liz narrowly snatches the bottle of wine as Soul tumbles to the floor, taking the condoms and lube with him. She holds the bottle close to her heart and prods the pile of failure and disappointment with her bare toe.

"Are you okay?"

"Nice save," he groans. At least the alcohol won't suffer from certain death.

Too bad the same can't be said for his cool. There's no saving that sinking ship.

Liz grins and offers a hand to him. "Get off the floor. I didn't want you to actually kiss my feet and beg for it."

"No kissing," Soul whines. "Might slobber a bit, though. Think I smashed my jaw."

"Poor baby." She tugs him to his feet and dusts his shoulder off. He meets her eyes and purses his lips as she cups his jaw in her hands. It's not uncomfortable, not unwelcomed, but it's also not warm fuzzies and burning desire that he feels in his gut as she touches him. It's more a nurturing feeling than anything else, like she's his mother, making sure his scuffed face isn't bleeding and doesn't need a bandaid.

"What's the damage?"

"Bruised a little," she says. "But you're fine. Want to ice it?"

"Is that sexy?"

She laughs and kidnaps the bottle of wine again, scurrying off toward the kitchen. "You're sexier when you don't try, Soul," she informs him, teasing smile still curled upon her lips. She's not wearing makeup but she's still beautiful, still all hard blue eyes and high cheekbones. It's not any less intimidating than her razor sharp eyeliner and smokey eyes.

Soul slumps into a chair at the counter and plants his chin in his hands. "Keep it cool?"

She snorts. "Don't take a digger before you get her panties off. No girl is going to throw them at you if you can't manage basic human interaction."

Liz pours two glasses of the wine and slides one to him. He takes it into his hand, wiggles and shifts the base of the cup and watches the drink spin and splash like a child playing with his food. Belatedly, he realizes that he hasn't drank anything for substance or a buzz since he turned 18, and the alcohol won't be taking the edge off of anything. Playing with his drink is better at soothing his nerves than doing nothing so he keeps at it, shoulders slouched and quietly wishing he'd smoked something before heading over.

And that's twisted; it's sad he has to consider getting high in order to feel alright with getting naked with Liz Thompson, of all people. Most people would tear off their left arm for a chance to get it on with her.

She raises a brow and lowers her glass from her lips. The wine has left her mouth glossy and damp and Soul shoves a napkin at her. "Aren't you going to have any?"

"No point."

Her brows crease. "Then why'd you bring it?"

Because he's an idiot, why else. "Cool guys don't just show up for sex empty handed," he drawls boorishly. "Duh."

"Duh," she repeats, squinting at him. "Then let's move this into the bedroom, shall we?"

Ignoring the sinking in his stomach and the sweat beading along his forehead is a project and a half, but he swallows his nerves anyway. It's for his own good, Soul tells himself as he drags himself out of his chair and follows Liz to his doom.

His 'doom' being her bedroom, which isn't unfamiliar but still brings an odd discomfort that settles in his bones and haunts him. Insecurities whisper and croon to him - not good enough, never good enough - and he stills behind her, watching her pull her shirt over her head in one fluid motion.

Her bare back is beautiful, like a painting, but he has no desire to drag his fingers down the regal line of her spine and taste her skin. She shakes her hair out of her high pony and flashes him a dark look from over her shoulder and he gulps.

"Plug in your iPod," she murmurs to him.

He might be embarrassed if he wasn't so thankful for the distraction. Soul cycles through his playlist, selects the one titled 'Liz' at the bottom and lets the low beats drum and dictate the throbbing in his chest. The song works as a metronome for his nerves, steady and sturdy, and he slouches onto the bed and sits on his knees. He stares at her pillows, her headboard, anything but her.

She moves like a cat, all grace and long limbs leaning and arching. Carefully manicured nails pull at the hem of his shirt gently and he finally looks at her. She bites her lip and raises a brow, a wordless question, and he jerks a nod of his head. With her help, his shirt is discarded with only minor difficulty.

Liz runs her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes. "This is a good song."

"Yeah," he says slowly. "It's one of my favorites. I dig the bridge-"

"It's sensual," she agrees, attempting to lace her arms around his neck and tug him over to her. Soul stumbles towards her, knees shaking. Her chest is warm and soft against his, pillowy, and he would be comforted if not for nipples and the knowledge that more nakedness is to come. "Hmm," she hums as she ghosts gentle kisses along his jaw.

His skin feels like it's crawling. No, no, no.

But it's just Liz, Soul tells himself. He has napped in her bed plenty of times. This is not stranger danger that he feels clogging his throat.

He can't bring himself to look her in the eye while he caresses down her sides. Shame wallows in his very being, choking him, punishing him for laying his hands in places they do not belong. His thumb follows the lines of her ribs, counting them in his head. One, two, three, four...

Liz moans against his skin. His cheek flushes with color, greedily drinking in her pleasure. He's parched. All at once, he's reminded of his goal, of their intentions, of why they're messing around in the first place - and it's not for her benefit at all. It doesn't sit well on him, even with his starving heart and shaking arms.

Her nails scrape down the side of his neck and dig into his shoulders. She's giving, giving, and Soul feels scummy for taking; she is not a meal. She is so much more than dinner, than a quick, awkward fuck that will leave her breathless in all the wrong ways. Deciding to try harder, he grips her hips and leads her down, tucking her head against the pillows and pressing her into the mattress.

Right. Okay.

It's not like he's never seen a naked woman before. Being the younger brother of Wes "Plenty o' Puss" Evans comes with a few perks. Liz's bare chest is not foreign ground. Tits are his friend, not his enemy. All boobs are good boobs, Wes always says.

Thinking about Wes while trying to platonically bang Liz feels a lot like incest, so he shakes the thought and instead focuses on slipping her lacy panties down her hips.

She eyes him. "So?"

Soul burns red and vehemently attempts to disguise it with a snarl. "So?"

Unabashed, she slips her legs apart and links a knee around the back of his leg. Liz allows him to gawk at the array of bare flesh with minor sass, but when Soul does nothing more than gape like a fish and squawk, she clears her throat and nudges him. "Anything?"

He forces a breath through his nose. No, he's still a limp noodle. .

Instead of answering her question and further embarrassing himself, he decides to take the hands-on approach. Soul glides his fingers along the curve of her hip slowly, cautiously watching her expression. She nods, and he finds that he can't look her in the eye while he rubs her more private anatomy.

A nervous laugh bubbles out of him as she quakes with the hint of a groan. He glues his eyes onto the headboard. It's a cherry oak color, with intricate designs and careful detailing. He's focusing on the way the decoration spirals and curls into simple leaves and branches when Liz slides her hand up his chest and grabs his shoulder.

"Soul," she breathes. "You should kiss me."

He screams internally. "Uh." He bites his lip. "Yeah, okay."

Kissing is normal, Soul tells himself as he leans over her. It would be weird for him not to kiss her, theoretically, but when he presses his mouth against hers he's not so sure. They still, lips unmoving and eyes wide open, sizing each other up. Is this supposed to be sensual? Is she enjoying this? Because he's sure not.

She groans against his lips. "Never mind," she huffs, her breath humming against his mouth. Soul jerks back happily, now that the permission to stop the platonic mouth touches has been granted, but moves with too much force and shouts in terror as he tumbles off the back of her bed. Liz shrieks and sits up, hand over her heart, and fails not to laugh at his misery. He grunts, rubs his sore shoulder and Liz shakes her head as she holds a hand out to him.

"Am I sexy yet," he groans uselessly.

"Your brother's a better lay," Liz answers, too honestly.

Defeat, thy name is Soul. He didn't even get his pants off this time.

They end up cuddling and finishing off his playlist. Liz sips the cheap wine and Soul buries his face against her shoulder and drinks in her body heat. They try the sex thing again but to no avail; a pelvic charlie horse prevents Soul's hips from doing anything even remotely rhythmic and he throws in the towel, resigning himself to a life of hugging the elderly and living with an empty stomach and light head.

"You're going to die," Liz murmurs into his hair.

"Fuck me," he groans.

"Soul, I just tried-"

"Don't remind me."

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "I could try singing?"

He snorts. If only it were that easy. "It never changed a damn thing before. Even a siren's song can't get me laid, Liz."

If he weren't so emotionally constipated, he might cry a little. Coolly, of course. His life is so frustrating, and his stomach growls loudly, as if he's ever had a chance to forget his fate. Destiny is a bitch and even his fellow supernaturals can't help him now. Kim refuses to break the rules (what?) and Liz's song can't entice him.

Liz pauses for a moment, scratching the back of his neck lightly. He feels rather like a dog but doesn't shy away from her neck scratches. "You're fucked."

"Mmh."

"Well, not fucked. That's the problem, more like-"

Soul muffles a whine. "Not now, Liz. Seriously."

He leaves her house when the playlist loops, stuffing his iPod into his pants pocket and ducking through the door. She watches him through the window, offering a bittersweet wave with the hand that's not clutching her glass of wine. At least he was able to give her something, even if it wasn't a throbbing meat wand. At least she'll get use out of the cheap convenience-store wine - more use than she (or anyone else, for that matter, himself included) will ever get out of his penis.

"Would it kill you to work for once," he grunts at his crotch. "Kinda starving here. Need to fuck to live. I'd like to live to see Wes bald at least."

A group of young teens gasp. Soul defaults to snarling and baring his jagged teeth at them like a werewolf or something; but he still has demon genetics and it is late o'clock, so with the lowlight of the moon and flickering streetlights aiding his fucked up appearance, he manages to scare them away with minimal blows to his pride.

They titter and gasp as they scurry.

Soul slouches and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Dick," he whispers accusingly.

There's no stirring in his pants. He suspects his lower anatomy wouldn't reply even if it could. It can't talk now, but it already does a splendid job of ignoring his wishes and doing what it wants. His penis is more chill than he is. His penis is too cool for him.

"Who do you think you are," he grits his teeth. "I'm the boss. I'm the coolest guy around."

Who tries using intimidation tactics to bully his penis into should-be submission. Coolest cat on the block, for sure.

Realizing that he's effectively talking to himself, he scowls and keeps trudging forward. It's later than he would like it to be. He's not afraid of the dark, per say, but the streets are harder to navigate at night, and making his way home is never easy on an empty stomach. His gut growls and roars, malnourished and sore.

As if it's the only one suffering. His body is constructed of up traitorous, whining parts that make up his whole, his disillusionment and his frustration. His stomach aches, his head throbs, his limbs suffer, and his dick holds the award for most errors in the season. Three strikes and he's out; Kim, Wes' offerings, and Liz.

He wobbles on his feet. That's the ballgame, Soul supposes; like he expected anything more than a night of disappointment and hunger.

It must've rained recently. The dampness of the grass edging the sidewalk makes his sneakers squeak and creak. He zeroes in on the sound like a hawk and his head pounds, bothered. He focuses on nothing else but the sound of his shoes and the uncertain lighting of the nearby streetlight, and his vision wavers, the sharpness of the lines of the sidewalk blurring into murky smudges of gray and black. The night darkens around him and time slows as he sluggishly glances up; suddenly it's much later, and the gloomy shades of the hour cloud him and spiral until he can see nothing but darkdarkdark blankness and swirling blots of colors.

His skin practically melts in waves of sweat; he feels frail as he wobbles and grapples for something, anything to steady himself. And the colors curl and ripple, shifting into places and shapes that he belatedly realizes resemble the pinkness of flesh, of spread legs and curious excitement that feels disturbingly foreign.

He laugh-screams as he fades out of consciousness and plummets into the pseudo vagina. Gross. How unsightly.