There is a kind of “Cabin In the Woods”-type horror scenario happening in “American Dad” S12E07: “Ninety North, Zero West”.
They fail to stop the Santa archtype from returning the Titan’s eyes, and the Endbringer wakes up.
In its weakened state, angry!Steve runs into it with the train, popping its eyes out of its head. But if he hadn’t done that …
“What is even happening?” He struggled to pull his right glove on, wishing once again that he’d ordered those new uniforms. But this is what he had – something leftover from ’02 and smelling just a bit dingy – and he’d make the best of it. He always did.
“I don’t know, Dad. They’re just telling us all to get out of town.” Ashley wore her uniform and looked so much like her old self that it ached, but he could tell by the uncertainty in her voice that she was still scrambled eggs.
“We’ll help with the evacuation, but we’ll keep moving toward the [exit] points,” he decided. She had no place being in a fire fight, and she wasn’t leaving his side. So he’d just have to stick clear of whatever disaster was rocking the town. “Grab our Go Bags. We leave in fifteen minutes.”
Evan strode down the short hallway to his favorite bathroom and locked himself inside. He was trembling and sweating and he didn’t know why.
Except she’d been dead. There’d been a funeral. She’d been out of his life for so long that he was beginning to get over her loss. The pain had never left, but he’d been putting his life back together. Then she was back again.
He’d been through an emotional yoyo-fucking. Like he’d been strapped down and the Safe Word was unpronouncable and the fear was just starting to get overwhelming. He was shaking, on the edge of tears.
They should already be leaving the apartment. But he needed a few minutes to pull himself together. A little self-care now would mean better effectiveness later on.
He set the timer on his phone, then stripped out of his clothes. He stood in front of the mirror naked. Stared into his own eyes as he took five deep breaths.
Then he reached into the medicine cabinet and took two pumps of lube from the bottle and closed the mirror.
Evan held the cool jelly-like glob of lube in his hand and stared into his own reflected eyes.
He saw the flame burning in the blackness. Pupil and iris, gradually swallowed up by flame until he stared into pits of beckoning flame, tendrils reaching out like lashes. Ghostly echoes of hands and figures, indulging in pornographic acts.
He stared into those flaming depths, gorgeous sea anemone of beckoning flame, blues flickering ghostlike across the oranges and yellows. He imagined pressing himself into those wavering appendages and letting himself be pulled inside.
His hips rolled forward as he thrust into his right hand, his left palm pressing against the counter edge as his fingers desperately flexed and held on. He kept his lips pressed tight together and breathed in and out through his nose, huffing puffs and grunts that he consciously tried to slow down.
He was thrusting faster and faster. Those flames were eeling out of the darkness inside that other-him’s head. Flames were spooling out in writhing tentacles that slipped and slithered down his chest, around his thighs, and wrapped around both legs and feet. He was enshrouded in living flames.
He was caressed by the flames. They stroked across his shoulders, down his arms, prickling a trail of goosepimples. He shivered and flexed.
Tendrils looped around his chest, passing over and in his belly button before looping down between his legs and back up. It made him slide his bare feet apart and lean into the counter, arching his back as he thrust helplessly.
Evan was lost.
He knew he was.
But where else was he supposed to go?
Retirement or not, he was still the Flameburst.
He still loved the flames.
And they were taking him over now. He could feel it and he loved it, even as he hated the person he would become.
He’d do anything to protect Ashley. Even this.
He was fucked faster, harder. He was making a pitched whining sound that he tried to stop but couldn’t. His body was out of his control. He was being engulfed by the flames.
His hips thrust faster and faster. He was gripping the counter with desperate strength, his shoulders hunching forward as he jerked off.
He was focused on his groin. His breath was hitching and breaking as he whined/gasped, his bare toes flexing and lifting him up and down. He was close, he could feel it. He was so close.
So close, so close – a tear trickled unnoticed down his cheek as he desperately tried to reach that precipice. His thighs were trembling and he was stroking faster and faster, his hand slidng in a mix of lube and precome.
He could feel himself being opened up. Even as he fucked his fist, the flames were reaching around and up inside. And some part of him – the still stodgily straight part – wanted to protest what was about to happen. But the rest of him remembered that it felt so good to come.
He hadn’t been able to masturbate without the flames for years. And sex with normals had become a no-go when he’d nearly burnt that woman. Plus he thought flamelets dripping from his dick was a sign that his body wasn’t safe for sex with others.
He’d forgotten how good letting go felt. And how gorgeous his mirror-self was.
Flames licked over his body, urging him faster and faster. He was close. So close. So… close…
A fist of flame punching up into his body. That’s what it felt like. But instead of pain, there was a flooding warmth that arced through his whole body – bowing his back and zipping down to his fingers and toes – before recirculating around to pool in his groin.
He came so hard that he blacked out.
The Flameburst left the bathroom. He’d showered and done what he could to fix the old uniform. It had been saved in a box as a memento of the Good Old Days, and he’d gained a couple of pounds since then.
He moved his arms and legs up and down as he walked into the living room. He was going to need to stretch some of the stiffness out if he hoped to be combat effective.
He smiled at Ashley when he found her wearing a dark green peacoat with the bags and supplies arrayed around her. She was ready and waiting to go. “Good job, sport.”
She smiled at him a little uncertainly. “Okay.”
He stared at her for a moment. Without her memory, she didn’t know about his little swaps. She wouldn’t remember the warnings signs and avoid his triggers.
Evan would be angry if Ashley burned up. The Flameburst would probably feel regretful about it later too. Especially if Evan refused to swap with him anymore.
Everything was so beautiful and bright. Everything burned and he could make the whole world dance. But he had to hold himself back. Had to remember consequences and reasons why burning the world wasn’t allowed.
“Let’s get out of here, kiddo,” he said, trying to sound as jolly and Dad-like as he assumed Evan would. He hadn’t paid much attention to Evan’s interactions with amnesiac-Ashley, but he wasn’t capable of feeling fear.
The Flameburst pulled a parka over his uniform to cover it and to protect him from the icy weather outside. He zipped the coat up under his chin and flipped the hood over his head before putting on the backpack.
He wobbled a little as he adjusted to the weight, silently cursing his out of shape body. Then he grinned at the challenge.
He felt the flames flare around his heart: a burst of heat and pleasure rippled through his blood to engulf his limbs and groin. He flexed his buttocks and thighs to keep from thrusting forward.
It felt so strong.
Evan hadn’t been feeding his flames enough.
He’d been a dangerous explosive walking amongst unknowing people. The wrong word or gesture could have had him lash out with dangerous consequences. It was a careless disregard for safety.
Which said a lot about Evan’s mental state.
The Flameburst breathed in and out, a flame flickering at the back of his throat as he retaught his body control. He couldn’t allow any accidents.
“Let’s go.” He let Ashley open the door, but he stepped out first. He would keep her safe.