Work Text:
There is blood dripping down his chin and his smile is manic. Every fibre of Foggy's being is screaming at him to run, yet he's unable. Stuck in place by his own fear and sick fascination he knows runs deep within every human being on the planet; he tries to remind himself that he's not the only one who's been transfixed by destruction. By that hold death and carnage has on people. Seeing a car crash and searching for a body without really thinking about it, hearing about an incident and conjuring up images of dying and bloodied bodies automatically. He knows there's nothing really wrong with this, everyone experiences invasive and intrusive thoughts. Everyone thinks of things they know they shouldn't but can't help.
But he also knows this is very different.
This doesn't happen to him.
This happens to other people. Happens to Karen in her ever-present search for the truth, pissing off every mob and cartel in her way. Happens to the unfortunate, the dirty, and the too-brave-for-their-own-good.
Unfortunate.
The first time maybe, but now this was purposeful, he knew, and he’s not in his right frame of mind to even begin thinking about what this all could mean.
“Good evening, Counsellor.”
Foggy closes his eyes and fights back the urge to violently shiver. His stomach is churning and he can feel the burn in his throat as he tries not to completely freak out. He ends up regretting closing his eyes the second he does, the image of the dead man's insides dripping out his body flashes behind his eyelids, red and black outlining the grey of the image.
It's so unbelievably unreal that for a moment Foggy can pretend this isn't real life.
But only for a moment.
He can't hear the man or see him, but there's no mistaking his presence. How he can command the attention of an entire city block without trying is anyone's wager, but Foggy isn't a betting man. He just wants to be at home and safe, not out in the open with the lunatic of Hell's Kitchen.
“Hi,” is all he can manage in response but it hardly matters. The Devil laughs, the sound deep and jovial and Foggy hates the reaction it elicits from him.
He takes in a deep breath when he feels the man tower over him. He feels too small, too fragile, too on edge, and this mixture is making him dizzy.
“What, no cutting remark for me tonight? What's wrong, Devil got your tongue?”
“In your dreams,” he bites out, and the Devil laughs again. Foggy can almost picture his smile, the vision of lips curling back around blood stained teeth replacing the dead man's. He isn't sure if it's an improvement or not.
“How do you know what I dream?”
“Lucky guess, I guess,” he curses himself when his voice wavers, and he's fairly certain the Devil laughs again, but he's also sure that the man's laugh is forever ringing through his ears, so he isn't exactly one-hundred percent sure of anything anymore, not when it comes to this man.
His next inhale is sharp and louder than he wishes it was, but what could he do? He just knows that the man is right in front of him and is leaning closer and closer, and the urge to open his eyes is overwhelming. He can feel them opening without permission before he squeezes them shut.
He use to like the colour red.
Who is he kidding, he still does.
What he feels is complex. He's repulsed by what this man does, but has room in his heart for him. Thankful that he gets rid of the scum that plagues the streets of New York, but wishes he never knew just how haunting the sound of a dead man's scream is.
“Lucky indeed.”
He pulls his lower lip back between his teeth unconsciously, and he nods his head jerkily in response. Fingers run down his arms and he tenses on contact, his heartbeat getting more out of control as the seconds pass. Sheer suspense rushes through his veins making it hard to concentrate on anything other than the man touching him.
“Care for some company, Foggy?”
He opens his eyes at that, tentatively. He blinks back the small shock of their closeness, thinking that it isn't right but also exactly as it should be. He stares into red eyes, his lips parting slightly as he thinks of something, anything, to say, and tries to control his stuttering breaths as he breathes in and out and in and out and in and out and -
“Let me take you home.”
There's blood all over the Devil’s mouth, smudged and winging out towards his left ear, splattered on his mask and a drop on the tip of his nose. Foggy isn't sure when he became so impulsive, but he reaches towards the man with a shaking hand and gently thumbs his exposed cheek.
The fingers that ran gently down his arms are now circling around his hips, clutching onto the fabric of his clothing and digging into his flesh with a squeeze. For a moment, Foggy can pretend those hands didn't just excavate a man only moments ago.
But only for a moment.
“Let me take you home, Foggy,” the Devil says again, though his tone is lower, maybe in another life he would call it want.
Foggy inhales shakily.
“I think I should go, alone.”
The man leans in closer, though it could barely be considered as movement. Almost as if he's vibrating on the spot, swaying from adrenaline. But he does move, no matter how slight, and it's enough to make Foggy's breath catch in his throat and for his panicking heart-rate to skip.
“Are you sure?” is asked against his throat, and he can't stop the image of sharp teeth ripping into his flesh from flashing in his mind, nor the shiver that shakes his chest. He presses his palms against the man's chest, but doesn't push him away.
“I think so.”
He feels the quirk of lips against his skin and the press of them that follows, and he swears it feels like a fire blossoming underneath his skin.
“Well, if you're sure.”
“I am.”
Those lips that trail fire in their wake make their way from his neck to his jaw in light presses. Teasing and deadly, taunting his pulse and brain. He's pretty sure he might pass out from the attention if his heart doesn't give out on him first.
When the trail ends just at the corner of his mouth, the tension in the air is thick. It dances along his skin and makes him shiver despite how it feels like he's burning from the inside out.
He knows he could walk away. That the strength pinning him to the wall he backed himself against earlier in the evening could be broken by him simply saying no. The Devil, for all his reputation and dangers, was still somehow one of the most gentle beings he's come across.
He may as well put the final nail in his coffin himself.
He turns his head and allows his lips to be captured. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat as the Devil presses closer still, closing any and all gaps between them by covering Foggy completely.
The blood is wet and warm on his lips, and the smell of copper tickles his nose and assaults his tongue, but none of that matters. His brain goes offline as hands grab at him, seemingly from all directions, and teeth nip his bottom lip. He enjoys the feeling of not thinking. Enjoys how this just flows together in a wave of kisses, bites, and noises that don't register to him. The only thing that matters is how the body moving against his feels and sounds their lips make as they move together.
Distantly, he remembers it's blood that’s coating his mouth, that he's kissing the Devil of Hell's Kitchen like he'll never kiss anyone again, and that this is wrong on so many levels he'll never be able to see the wrongness in its entirety.
With one last lingering press, the Devil pulls away, hovering over him for a moment, their noses brushing as they breathe in the same air.
“Goodnight, Foggy.”
Foggy inhales sharply, startled, as the man pushes away and disappears into the night in one fast, sudden movement. Foggy swallows, and feels the world slam back into him as he hears his heart pounding erratically in his ears.
He holds back the urge to lick his lips.
“Goodnight,” he says, barely a whisper, to the vacant street.
