Incubus Hermann and blind newt
Feb. 5th, 2017 01:26 pmvia http://ift.tt/2lbFjjy:
The banging starts at three in the afternoon. Hermann looks up, a momentary flash of panic that this is it, they have found him as he is about to be dragged back-
But then it comes again, heavy and dull and throbbing through the structure of the house and no, it is not the hoards of hell come for him. He just has a neighbour who is a bloody arsehole.
Hermann gets up, hobbles up the stairs to the flat above, hammers on the door.
It takes a moment whoever it is making that godawful din to notice. The hammering pauses, Hermann bangs harder.
Finally, there’s a click and Hermann steps back, scowling. The idiot on the other side is dressed in a torn band t-shirt held together by safety pins, incredibly tight black jeans and a pair of sunglasses. Sunglasses. Indoors.
Hermann crosses his arms cross his chest, tries to force his tail still, it’s threatening to pull free and lash in irritation. “I have just moved in downstairs.”
“Oh,” The man hesitates. “Okay, sorry about the noise.”
“Yes.” Hermann says darkly.
“But, dude, it’s like the middle of the afternoon.” He shrugs. “I don’t do it past eight.”
“I work from home.” Hermann frowns. A little taken aback.
“Okay, but- this is my job.” The man crosses his arms, frowning behind his absurd glasses. I’m a drummer dude, I gotta practice.”
“At home?” Hermann snarls, what is going on?
“Yes.”
This- should not be happening. Everyone else has been- pliable. He cannot get away from what he is and everyone just all too happy to agree to anything he wants, and feel entitled to any part of his body in return.
This man is just scowling at him, unmoving, unmoved. Hermann takes a breath, then- he swore he’d never do this again, he swore, but he has to know. “I think,” his voice drops, a low, sweet growl, “You will find you can practice all you want somewhere else.”
The wave of allure shimmer like a heat mirage around them, but the man doesn’t even flinch. He just continues to scowl at Hermann- no, not at Hermann, just over his left shoulder.
This man cannot see him.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I live here too. I’m playing until eight, you don’t like it, buy earplugs or something.”
The door slams. Hermann stares at it for a moment. Then he goes down and checked the doorbell name. Newt Geiszler.
He has a neighbour who is not affected by him. He has a neighbour who will treat him like a person. Hermann’s isn’t sure how to feel about it.
Particularly when the drumming starts again, thick and heavy and pounding.

The banging starts at three in the afternoon. Hermann looks up, a momentary flash of panic that this is it, they have found him as he is about to be dragged back-
But then it comes again, heavy and dull and throbbing through the structure of the house and no, it is not the hoards of hell come for him. He just has a neighbour who is a bloody arsehole.
Hermann gets up, hobbles up the stairs to the flat above, hammers on the door.
It takes a moment whoever it is making that godawful din to notice. The hammering pauses, Hermann bangs harder.
Finally, there’s a click and Hermann steps back, scowling. The idiot on the other side is dressed in a torn band t-shirt held together by safety pins, incredibly tight black jeans and a pair of sunglasses. Sunglasses. Indoors.
Hermann crosses his arms cross his chest, tries to force his tail still, it’s threatening to pull free and lash in irritation. “I have just moved in downstairs.”
“Oh,” The man hesitates. “Okay, sorry about the noise.”
“Yes.” Hermann says darkly.
“But, dude, it’s like the middle of the afternoon.” He shrugs. “I don’t do it past eight.”
“I work from home.” Hermann frowns. A little taken aback.
“Okay, but- this is my job.” The man crosses his arms, frowning behind his absurd glasses. I’m a drummer dude, I gotta practice.”
“At home?” Hermann snarls, what is going on?
“Yes.”
This- should not be happening. Everyone else has been- pliable. He cannot get away from what he is and everyone just all too happy to agree to anything he wants, and feel entitled to any part of his body in return.
This man is just scowling at him, unmoving, unmoved. Hermann takes a breath, then- he swore he’d never do this again, he swore, but he has to know. “I think,” his voice drops, a low, sweet growl, “You will find you can practice all you want somewhere else.”
The wave of allure shimmer like a heat mirage around them, but the man doesn’t even flinch. He just continues to scowl at Hermann- no, not at Hermann, just over his left shoulder.
This man cannot see him.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I live here too. I’m playing until eight, you don’t like it, buy earplugs or something.”
The door slams. Hermann stares at it for a moment. Then he goes down and checked the doorbell name. Newt Geiszler.
He has a neighbour who is not affected by him. He has a neighbour who will treat him like a person. Hermann’s isn’t sure how to feel about it.
Particularly when the drumming starts again, thick and heavy and pounding.
