Trip or Treat

Armand felt himself picked up, hoisted into the strong...gulp...muscled arms, and immediately froze up, his eyes wide, body shaking, but tense, so tense, that he couldn't move. Oh no. That wasn't good. He felt hot and warm all over, and his head felt dizzy and cottony and he felt sick to his stomach, but not entirely sick, but he was very distracted by those muscles that he could feel flexing about his body as he was held up against Claud's chest. Oh. Those pectorals. They were solid. Armand tried very hard not to think about it, tried very hard not to think about their shape or the way they might act if he squee...God, it was impossible. He tried to think of something else. Don't think about Claud, or his muscles, or his horns....Horns...NO. Not that. Think of... Of...Jesus. Nope, that didn't work. All he could think about was Jesus' muscles on the particularly well sculpted pieces, and he batted his mind away from that useless trail. Think of, think of...Father Hopkins. How disappointed would he be if...But Father Hopkins wasn't here. He wasn't watching. He could get away with....NO. He needed to think of something else! Anything else! Birds! Birds and be-- NO. What about...Housing items! Boring, uneventful...nails. Nailing. NO. NO. NO. That wasn't working either!! His mind was his worst enemy made worse still with these monstrous changes! Armand stuffed his blanket covered hands, wrapped up as he was in his burrito of a blanket, into his face, and made a very plaintive whining sound, a miserable heartfelt whimper as he actively fought with the suddenly very strong desires just to TOUCH CLAUD ALL OVER and investigate his new form. The temptations were so strong, and he felt hungry. He didn't know what for, but he was starving. So Armand wiggled and writhed and tried to tighten himself up into a ball, even as Claud tried to take him into the safety of his cottage, to his be--

THE BED. HE WAS GOING TO BE LAID DOWN INTO BED. LAID DOWN ONTO THE BED BY CLAUD WITH HIS BULGING MUSCLES AND BEAUTIFUL EYES AND WET WORRIED LIPS.

As soon as they got to the door, Armand began shouting, suddenly beside himself with light-headed delirious panic. He had to keep thinking of something else, something uneventful, uninteresting, not uniquely handsome as---DAMN IT ALL.

"NO, DON'T. NO. NO. DON'T, CLAUD. NO!! NOT THERE. NO. WE CAN'T GO IN THERE," he began howling, practically trying to scramble over Claud's shoulder like a cat fleeing a bath, "NO, DON'T TAKE ME IN THERE. DON'T TAKE ME TO BED."

He had only realized that he was no longer being guided into the dark unattended safety of his house when Claud had firmly planted Armand onto his bare feet and smoothed his fingers over his cheeks, holding him as he stared sweetly into his eyes. It was Claud's eyes that arrested him, the subtle blink and longing stare, and Armand could finally feel himself calming down enough to make sense of the whirlwind of panic and reckless wailing that his mind was going through. Like this, he could really appreciate the gentility with which Claud handled and held him, the way his fingers framed his jaw. His hands were rough and work worn, but the tenderness in them made them soft. Armand gulped audibly, licking his parched lips once. Being touched at all, like that was enough to make Armand weak in the knees. His stomach growled, hungry for something that he could not name, and weakly, he tried to raise his voice above the flooding sensation of delirious and dizzying lust. "T-the infirm-ma...mmn..."

But Armand caught sight of the blush and at once, without hesitation in his mind, wished that Claud would kiss him. His horns, as if in answer, pulsed lightly, like a heartbeat, a strange sensation and it was to his surprise that a moment later Claud leaned forward, closed his eyes, and just as Armand had instructed in his mind, pressed his lips to his. Chaste. Simple. Delicious.

Armand's knees again grew weak underneath him, his wings tightening to his back as he threatened to drop. B-but he was so hungry. He was starving.

Christian waited for Mitt to come to his senses, or more correctly turn his attention back to him to amuse him some more but he felt slightly uneasy as if something was creeping up on him. Then Armand's yell made him freeze up for a second and he turned around to look.



Rage. Seething rage boiled up in Christian and he couldn't stop it. It quite literally bursted out of his shoulders in the form of green flames and the air around him started to carry the scent of sulphur.
He didn't like what he saw at all.