That suits fit like a glove. Actually, just like a particular glove on a particular hand in a particular location. The night is young and his smirk is fresh. Golden orange eyes trickle down to his hand. He twists it under the black martial. The demon coos to him like a chick to the hen.
“You know,” he churns out, tightening his tie as the giant watches himself in the mirror. “I love when you call me master.” It’s a tease to tickle though there is never a response or action. “I accept love letters at midnight and serenading by the window.”
His smirk widens.
Friendly reminder I’m a failure
She still haunts his dreams.
But she doesn’t come that often. She’s a phantom of sort. She is the poltergeist that doesn’t shake the bed nor break the dishes. The phantom drifts by, letting her fingers roam across familiar blond hair and less than friendly teeth. Then she leaves. Cold sweats plague him every other day as if he is just learning to cope. He doesn’t tell anyone. He has never been a man for words but, he knows.
Jodie is still there and hell-
she always will be.
It was so young