Chapter Text
It was purely harmless on the shop owner’s part. The spider demon of Web of Desires was known to be quite handsy. Not in a sexual harassment way—more of enthusiasm to take precise measurements of patrons, and pride of his wares.
He simply wanted to demonstrate the properties of the collars he had on display. No ill will intended when he grabbed an unsuspecting Baskerville by the shoulders then used his other set of hands to proudly drop an elastic one on the Hellhound.
Everybody there, Verosika, her crew, and the owner, heard the distinct snap that went upon the item accommodating the bodyguard’s neck size. What no one expected was a cry—one not of anticipation for future pleasures, but of instincts triggered and memories unearthed. Something feral. Something raw. Something that Verosika would never forget.
Baskerville’s back arched swiftly causing a sickening crack. His maw was wide open—lips pulled back revealing the myriad of fangs beyond the veritable tusks of his overbite. With a violent twist out of the spider demon’s hold, he landed with a resounding thud to the tiled floor.
The white canine began to desperately grasp at his neck—vicious, low barks escaping him as he did so. Whether it was due to how large his hand was or his panic, his fingers kept missing the collar.
Throughout the whole thing, no one moved. Not even Verosika. Hesitation did not come easily to her. She was one of action in many aspects; the one to take charge.
But here, the succubus popstar simply stood there frozen in place. It was not out of indifference or cruelty. It was the sheer shock—the sheer shock of what was unfolding, the sheer shock of not knowing what to do for this, the sheer shock of what Baskerville had been reduced to.
Baskerville, who had no mean bone in his body. Baskerville, who was calm, loyal, not angered easily, and all smiles. Baskerville, who wore his heart on his sleeve and lent a listening ear. Baskerville, who made sure everyone was safe under his watch. Baskerville, who was always the gentleman no matter what.
And right now, he was none of that.
She was not sure of when last she had witnessed such ferocity from a Hellhound before. If someone from outside entered the shop, they would no doubt believe him to be an animal drastically burning his values by the second. For Baskerville, none of them—even the man he moulded himself into—existed: he had become an anxious, frenzied beast fighting against torment only he could sense.
It was only when his shades flung off—clattering and shattering at her feet—and his neck bled that the popstar yelled, “Baskerville!”
A sharp pop sounded as the bodyguard swiftly and roughly backed into the nearest wall. This shook a couple of the Web of Desires wares off their hooks and stands upon impact.
On the floor laid the flexible collar now broken.
In a different situation, this feat would have been considered impressive and arousing.
But, this was not it.
Verosika did not know how long it took before she, and the rest, finally turned to Baskerville.
Despite his blindness, he stared right where the collar landed. His ghostly silver eyes glistening, and filled with what the superstar demoness can only describe as terror. Unimaginable terror like the hound-like demon faced The Devil himself.
That said terror was further seen from his body—a tremble indicated by visible, harsh twitches from his mouth to his hand to his feet as he stood back up. As if to calm himself, he gripped the section that would be his left arm. However, to her, it looked like he was harming himself again by how his claws dug into the jacket fabric.
Before she could even step in—whether to stop him or to assuage the situation—the Web of Desires owner was first.
“My deepest apologies, sir.” The spider demon—sincerely remorseful as he picked up the destroyed collar—nervously twiddled some of his hands. “I grabbed you without asking to demonstrate the properties of the collar.”
At first, Baskerville did not answer. He was not even looking in the general direction of the arachnid. Verosika could practically recognize that far-off stare—unfocused, numb, fearful.
She was again ready to intervene—upon seeing her bodyguard’s claws flex once more into his clothing. Instead, the pale canine took a very deep breath—shuddering on the exhale, dropping his hand, and righting his posture. He then turned his head to where the sex shop owner was.
“It’s alright,” he said. No hesitation whatsoever—since the violent twitches had lulled—but Verosika would not call it calm by any means. He just sounded . . . lifeless—a word that should not describe Baskerville whatsoever.
“I think,” he bowed his head low, “I should wait outside for now.”
Without hesitation, or even acknowledging her or anyone else or retrieving his sunglasses, he left.