Commentary: Stations of the Cross
as requested by aphrodite_mine
I seem to write a lot of my fics while I’m sitting in class, and this one was no exception. The bunny appeared, strangely, because someone on x_fiction was looking for Nightcrawler/Mystique fics. I’d never considered this pairing but was immediately interested. Unfortunately, a search for for such fic yielded no results. So, in typical fashion, I wrote church!sex, and I’m quite proud of it. Reading over it again, I’ve noticed some things I might have changed, had I allowed myself a further edit, by I restrained the impulse.
Pure stillness reigned like a font of absolution, flooding the church to its highest beams. There’s lots of water imagery in this; I’m not really sure why, but I like it. Colours in fire from the falling sun poured in through high windows so that the scattering of shadows seemed to swim like shapeless fish in the burning air. The invasion of her footfalls barely stirred the tiny motes of dust drifting like suspended sand around her ankles, no echo, scarcely a sound beyond the muffled tap of black flats against the remains of carpeting which may once have been red. I love this opening.
Nothing moved in the dark corners or in the ocean depths of the distant ceiling, but she knew he was there. She’d tracked him down with little difficulty; there weren’t so many abandoned churches in Boston. She’d wanted to come sooner; larger movements intervened, but the world had slowed down somewhat, at least for her. So she found him, again, in a church of St. Andrew, and now he was hiding, watching, waiting for her to make her move. Gotta love Mystique’s machinations.
But he moved first, sending sharp ripples through the quiet with a sound like a silenced pistol firing through bedding. I really like this comparison. That was her cue. The original edit had quite a bit of stage metiphors, but I thought it was a little too heavy-handed, so I took them out.
“Is someone there?” It was like calling through water, tossed stones of echoes striking the walls. No response. “I know you’re there. It’s okay, you can come out.” She’s playing the innocent here, and for the rest of this sequence, which, for some reason, I found rather difficult to convey.
The softened gunshot sound came again, this time to her left, and a halting voice from the shadows. “Es tut ich Leid, Fraulein. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Oh, it’s alright.” Her predatory instinct settled in cold beside her hatred and lent to her voice the perfect proportions of sweetness and hesitation. I wanted to characterize her, primarily, as the predator in this. If there is any motivation for her actions, the most forthcoming, here, seems to be because she can. “I’m probably trespassing, anyway.”
She could hear the smile in his voice, knew it from memory, shy and mischievous. . I think maybe she was a little taken with him when they first met (X2), though she’d never admit it. “Then, I suppose, we both are.” Kurt is so sweet and charming, and Mystique’s totally about to tear him apart.
Her eyes had adjusted to the shifting dark, and she saw him, blurred behind the thin veil of shadow he thought would shield him. From anyone else, it would have.
“Do you live here?” Nice, pretty girl, just happened by. She wanted to draw him out, bring him closer, close enough to touch. We all know Kurt’s a sucker for a pretty girl. Here, also, is when you begin to question her purpose in being here. What does she want? Why is she going about it in this way?
“Ja. Well, most of the time.”
He wore black, barely distinguishable from his skin in the dimness. A charity from Xavier, she imagined; the last time she’d seen him, he’d been in rags, and she’d known him immediately in spite of it. The coat was still there, a few faded spangles grasping at spare bits of light. He looked like a strange magician, a priest of the occult drifting amid ruins of the sacred and shattered stained glass. It suited him. This is one of my favourite lines.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Danke.” His voice was flush with fragmented pride, king of a broken castle built for someone else. I’m actually quite proud of all the descriptions of Kurt, particularly in the context of the setting. “It is safe, I think, and very quiet.”
She stepped forward. “Are you a priest?”
“Nein, no. I am- Please.” He lifted his hands. “Do not come closer.”
“But I can’t see you.”
“Yes, I- I do not wish to frighten you.” A thin edge of terror crept cold into his voice, slicing through infinite gentleness. He was afraid she would run away. Poor Kurt. You have to figure, it might have been a year since he last spoke to anyone.
“I’m not scared. Please, come over here,” she beckoned kindly, like a friend. Like a mother. Mystique, you evil bitch.
After a moment’s pause, he moved hesitantly forward. The water-gold sunlight caught in the air around him, casting shadows on his skin, lighting him from all sides like a ghostly halo. See, he’s an angel. ^_^
The demon priest. Saint Kurt of the derelict chapel. Her son. Yeah, in case you missed that one.
She smiled sweetly. “That’s better.” He grinned back, far too pleased at being met with something other than horror. “What’s your name?”
“Kurt. Wagner. I-.” He blinked, as though dazzled. “Who are you?”
She fought back the impulse to choke as she said “My name’s Raven.” You know it just killed her to have to say that.
“A very beautiful name.” He slid toward her, scarcely an inch, and she almost imagined he bowed, just slightly. “For an even more beautiful lady.”
Too easy. She moved closer, close enough to smell the sulfur, the acrid smoke of burnt earth, that clung to him like armour. Close enough for now. And the audience is shouting “No! Closer! We Want incest!” “Are you flirting with me?” Yes, yes he is.
This time, he really did bow, a controlled, graceful motion made ridiculous by the peripheral swishing of his tail. “Nein, mein liebe, only paying a compliment.”
“Oh.” Another step. “That’s a shame.” The distance between them had become vacuous I like that word, a tidal pull eddying her errand toward its fulfilment. “I was kind of hoping you were.”
She thought about killing him, erasing all evidence of her past mistake. Since throwing him off a cliff obviously didn’t work so well. It would be simple, quick; it would be satisfying. She wondered, briefly, if his eyes would still glow, luminous in the dark, with all the life gone out of them. Consider, for a moment, the fact that she actually wonders about this, standing right in front of him. It’s a little creepy.
He was still smiling shyly. It would be so effortless, over in a moment, but it would serve no purpose. Not today, then. Maybe she would find him again, when she had a better reason. Again, creepy.
She slipped forward a pale hand to brush a lock of black hair away from those bright eyes. He almost flinched away, torn between disappearing and purring in perfect pleasure. She wondered how long it had been since anyone actually touched him. Her fingers lingered, tracing the path of a sacred symbol as it snaked over his cheek, tips burning on the heat of his skin. She followed the rise up to his lips, soft and mobile, scorching, and his breath formed a film of perspiration in the arch between her thumb and forefinger. Okay, I don’t care who you are, this is hot.
“Amazing,” she whispered. A moment of sincerity, perhaps?
He might have stopped her if he hadn’t been so paralyzed by disbelief, but he didn’t move and yielded without thought to the invasion she laid against his mouth. You know he’s thinking “Didn’t I see a porno that started like this?” Neither did he notice the little patch she pressed to the circle of scar tissue at the back of his neck, an item of her own devising, just enough of the so-called Cure to stop his disappearing trick. There would be no exit, not till she was finished. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a plot device. It actually occurred to me, when I was almost done writing, that I had to have something to keep him from ‘porting away, which was kind of dumb on my part. So, I came up with this. Pretty clever, hunh?
He tasted of fireworks, exploding in the soft space beneath her tongue, and blood welled into the slipstream as she nicked her lip on his razor canine. And you know, if you think about it, he probably would taste sort of like the smoke that hangs in the air after a really big fireworks display. The sudden taste of copper seemed to shake him back into the moment.
Holding her away with gentle force, his startling eyes questioned and pleaded. “Fraulein… Raven….”
“Don’t.,” she said, easing a hand along the sharp edge of his jaw. “Please.”
He hesitated, faltered only for a second, but it was enough.
All things equal, he could have beaten her, even if she had not been stripped of her gifts. But nothing was ever equal. He was tired and uncertain, the time between his meals measured in days; he was truly at his weakest, and she took him completely by surprise. Otherwise, you know Nightcrawler could totally take her.
One hand around his wrist, the other gripping his collar, she spun him around and smiled at the sickening sound as his head connected with the edge of a broken pew. Another blow and she felt him go slack in her grip, dazed enough to be docile to her purpose.
Originally, she was going to push him back into the confessional box, and the porn would play out there. I decided to use the altar and the crucifix for a number of reasons, mostly because I thought it was hotter. Though, don’t be surprised if confessional sex shows up in another story.
On the altar dais, the broad chair where the celebrant priest would have rested was centred, its back formed by the heavy crossed beams of St. Andrew’s cross.Credit for this lovely little plot point goes to sabinelagrande. This was her goal, dragging him viciously up the steps to the foot of the sacramental throne. From behind the X of the martyred saint, a great crucifix rose, the carven Christ gazing down with sadness and compassion on the violent scene below. This is the second fic I’ve written where people have sex in a church and it talks about the crucified Jesus watching. I’m sure this says something significant about my subconscious.
Her victim grasped at her arm, pushing weakly at the fingers twisted in his collar. She delivered a kick to the side of his head and let him fall, beaten, beneath the towering symbol.
Swinging above the centre altar was a copper censer, its chain disappearing into the depths of the distant ceiling. Hey, look! Another plot point. The musky smell of incense still hung about it, and she imagined him lighting the dark grains, prostrating himself, enveloped in a heavenly haze. One good pull and the long chain came clattering down in a crashing pile. As she gathered the loops of metal, a flicker caught her eye; a single small candle burned in a rack to the side of the tabernacle. On a thought, she retrieved the little light and set it within easy reach. Also the second fic where a candle was involved in sex.
He realized what she was doing as she leaned him roughly against the skewed cross, and, even then, his oppositions were weakly desperate. He must have tried to teleport and, finding that he couldn’t, now sought only to delay the onslaught. Seeing his frail fight, she grinned wickedly and punched him low in the gut; he would be still for a bit, now.
Wrapped across his arms and waist, the chain held him up, kept him in place; snaking down his legs, it pulled his body flush with the shape, spread him open like a specimen for dissection. And she intended to take him apart.
Using his body for leverage, she climbed up onto the cross, one long leg braced on either side. Thick blood covered half of his face, flowing in contours around the angelic whorls etched into his skin. Drawing close, she ran her tongue around the rise of his cheek and across his bruised temple. With his blood bitter in her mouth, she put her lips to his ear and said softly “Wake up.”
His head lifted, weary eyes casting about; his mouth worked feebly as he met her mocking stare, and, finally, he forced out a whispered “Why…?”
She laughed and kissed him hard; his body tensed between her thighs, and she could almost taste the bile rising in his throat.
“Because,” she purred into his mouth. His pants were so threadbare, the fly ripped open at a pull, nothing but skin underneath. He gasped, and she slid her free hand up the inside of his thigh. “Because you deserve it.” She touched him, fingers deft, and he writhed beneath her, his sex growing hot against whatever will he had left. With a sweet, chaste kiss on the bridge of his nose, she placed a hand on either side of his face and looked directly into his eyes. “Because I can.”
I don’t really have anything to say about the actual sex part of this, except that I quite like it, and there seems to be a theme running through most of the porn I write.
Pulling the elastic tie from her black hair, she wrapped it tight around his testicles. Ow. She wasn’t about to let him have release, not until this was finished. Legs still wrapped around the cinched centre of her victim and his cross, she leaned backward to pick up the little candle. With her other hand, she stroked his battered face, tenderly, saying in a soft voice “My beautiful little boy.” Creepy, much? The confusion in his face became unfocused agony when she poured the burning wax along the length of his sex. Again, ow.
As his cry of pain dissipated into the far corners of the church, she blew out the candle and tossed it to the floor with a smile of pleasure. He panted and pulled against the restraints; she stilled him with a hand around his throat, forcing his head back into the trench between the crossed beams.
“Look up,” she growled. “There’s your god.” He cried out and twisted against her, his tail thrashing about the lower beams. She jerked his head up and struck him hard, then forced him back choking. At the same moment, she lowered herself onto his flesh, closing around him and revelling in the sounds of anguish that poured from the corners of his mouth like blood.
“Let your saviour see your sin,” she hissed between his gasps. His body heaved, and she moved with him, forcing him deeper into her, slamming his back into the cross with every surge of her vicious rhythm. His sobs tumbled down in the form of shattered words, German.
“…die Sünden von meiner Seele, die Sünden… von meinem Körper….” “…the sins of my soul, the sins… of my body…” From a version of the Act of Contrition.
The pressure and pleasure rising in her fragmented the language away from comprehension. She focused her mind only long enough to press flush against him and whisper with the utmost venom “And with your own mother.” Yeah, there was a typo there the first time I posted this, and, when it was pointed out to me, I was horrified. Talk about ruining the moment. The perfect hopelessness in his voice as it faded set her to overflow, and she threw back her head in a noise of triumph as she came, clenching around him, her nails digging into his throat. The sound of her completion rang like breaking bells in the sinking red light of the church, and she shuddered the end with a laugh and a sigh.
Her victim moaned in pain as she lifted off of his still-hard sex. She released her grip and raised his head toward her. With a smile, she gently kissed his bloody mouth before wrapping both hands around his neck and holding tight until his bright eyes fluttered closed, unconscious. I like that she alternates between tenderness and viciousness; it makes her actions that much more hurtful.
Dark shadows descended from the vaulted ceiling to fall about this tableau, as though they were sinking to the bottom of some inverted ocean, falling away from the last waves of sunlight skittering across the church floor. The sanctuary had floated completely into the depth of early night when, satisfied that the worst had been done, she turned her back upon the desecrated altar and paced evenly toward the high front doors. Behind her, hanging from the crucifix with his wrists bound about the cold neck of the Christ figure, was her victim. Witnessed by no one but sightless stained-glass, blood and semen pooling in his clothes and dripping in thin streams to the tile below, was her son. Just take a moment here to pause and picture this.
Glancing momentarily at the back of her hand, she noticed a dark flush of blue, colour familiar as her own skin. Without pausing in her stride or looking over her shoulder, she willed it away, back to the pale flesh to which she had grown accustomed. Then she passed into the shadowed street and smiled.
The End.
:shadowen:
I seem to write a lot of my fics while I’m sitting in class, and this one was no exception. The bunny appeared, strangely, because someone on x_fiction was looking for Nightcrawler/Mystique fics. I’d never considered this pairing but was immediately interested. Unfortunately, a search for for such fic yielded no results. So, in typical fashion, I wrote church!sex, and I’m quite proud of it. Reading over it again, I’ve noticed some things I might have changed, had I allowed myself a further edit, by I restrained the impulse.
Pure stillness reigned like a font of absolution, flooding the church to its highest beams. There’s lots of water imagery in this; I’m not really sure why, but I like it. Colours in fire from the falling sun poured in through high windows so that the scattering of shadows seemed to swim like shapeless fish in the burning air. The invasion of her footfalls barely stirred the tiny motes of dust drifting like suspended sand around her ankles, no echo, scarcely a sound beyond the muffled tap of black flats against the remains of carpeting which may once have been red. I love this opening.
Nothing moved in the dark corners or in the ocean depths of the distant ceiling, but she knew he was there. She’d tracked him down with little difficulty; there weren’t so many abandoned churches in Boston. She’d wanted to come sooner; larger movements intervened, but the world had slowed down somewhat, at least for her. So she found him, again, in a church of St. Andrew, and now he was hiding, watching, waiting for her to make her move. Gotta love Mystique’s machinations.
But he moved first, sending sharp ripples through the quiet with a sound like a silenced pistol firing through bedding. I really like this comparison. That was her cue. The original edit had quite a bit of stage metiphors, but I thought it was a little too heavy-handed, so I took them out.
“Is someone there?” It was like calling through water, tossed stones of echoes striking the walls. No response. “I know you’re there. It’s okay, you can come out.” She’s playing the innocent here, and for the rest of this sequence, which, for some reason, I found rather difficult to convey.
The softened gunshot sound came again, this time to her left, and a halting voice from the shadows. “Es tut ich Leid, Fraulein. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Oh, it’s alright.” Her predatory instinct settled in cold beside her hatred and lent to her voice the perfect proportions of sweetness and hesitation. I wanted to characterize her, primarily, as the predator in this. If there is any motivation for her actions, the most forthcoming, here, seems to be because she can. “I’m probably trespassing, anyway.”
She could hear the smile in his voice, knew it from memory, shy and mischievous. . I think maybe she was a little taken with him when they first met (X2), though she’d never admit it. “Then, I suppose, we both are.” Kurt is so sweet and charming, and Mystique’s totally about to tear him apart.
Her eyes had adjusted to the shifting dark, and she saw him, blurred behind the thin veil of shadow he thought would shield him. From anyone else, it would have.
“Do you live here?” Nice, pretty girl, just happened by. She wanted to draw him out, bring him closer, close enough to touch. We all know Kurt’s a sucker for a pretty girl. Here, also, is when you begin to question her purpose in being here. What does she want? Why is she going about it in this way?
“Ja. Well, most of the time.”
He wore black, barely distinguishable from his skin in the dimness. A charity from Xavier, she imagined; the last time she’d seen him, he’d been in rags, and she’d known him immediately in spite of it. The coat was still there, a few faded spangles grasping at spare bits of light. He looked like a strange magician, a priest of the occult drifting amid ruins of the sacred and shattered stained glass. It suited him. This is one of my favourite lines.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Danke.” His voice was flush with fragmented pride, king of a broken castle built for someone else. I’m actually quite proud of all the descriptions of Kurt, particularly in the context of the setting. “It is safe, I think, and very quiet.”
She stepped forward. “Are you a priest?”
“Nein, no. I am- Please.” He lifted his hands. “Do not come closer.”
“But I can’t see you.”
“Yes, I- I do not wish to frighten you.” A thin edge of terror crept cold into his voice, slicing through infinite gentleness. He was afraid she would run away. Poor Kurt. You have to figure, it might have been a year since he last spoke to anyone.
“I’m not scared. Please, come over here,” she beckoned kindly, like a friend. Like a mother. Mystique, you evil bitch.
After a moment’s pause, he moved hesitantly forward. The water-gold sunlight caught in the air around him, casting shadows on his skin, lighting him from all sides like a ghostly halo. See, he’s an angel. ^_^
The demon priest. Saint Kurt of the derelict chapel. Her son. Yeah, in case you missed that one.
She smiled sweetly. “That’s better.” He grinned back, far too pleased at being met with something other than horror. “What’s your name?”
“Kurt. Wagner. I-.” He blinked, as though dazzled. “Who are you?”
She fought back the impulse to choke as she said “My name’s Raven.” You know it just killed her to have to say that.
“A very beautiful name.” He slid toward her, scarcely an inch, and she almost imagined he bowed, just slightly. “For an even more beautiful lady.”
Too easy. She moved closer, close enough to smell the sulfur, the acrid smoke of burnt earth, that clung to him like armour. Close enough for now. And the audience is shouting “No! Closer! We Want incest!” “Are you flirting with me?” Yes, yes he is.
This time, he really did bow, a controlled, graceful motion made ridiculous by the peripheral swishing of his tail. “Nein, mein liebe, only paying a compliment.”
“Oh.” Another step. “That’s a shame.” The distance between them had become vacuous I like that word, a tidal pull eddying her errand toward its fulfilment. “I was kind of hoping you were.”
She thought about killing him, erasing all evidence of her past mistake. Since throwing him off a cliff obviously didn’t work so well. It would be simple, quick; it would be satisfying. She wondered, briefly, if his eyes would still glow, luminous in the dark, with all the life gone out of them. Consider, for a moment, the fact that she actually wonders about this, standing right in front of him. It’s a little creepy.
He was still smiling shyly. It would be so effortless, over in a moment, but it would serve no purpose. Not today, then. Maybe she would find him again, when she had a better reason. Again, creepy.
She slipped forward a pale hand to brush a lock of black hair away from those bright eyes. He almost flinched away, torn between disappearing and purring in perfect pleasure. She wondered how long it had been since anyone actually touched him. Her fingers lingered, tracing the path of a sacred symbol as it snaked over his cheek, tips burning on the heat of his skin. She followed the rise up to his lips, soft and mobile, scorching, and his breath formed a film of perspiration in the arch between her thumb and forefinger. Okay, I don’t care who you are, this is hot.
“Amazing,” she whispered. A moment of sincerity, perhaps?
He might have stopped her if he hadn’t been so paralyzed by disbelief, but he didn’t move and yielded without thought to the invasion she laid against his mouth. You know he’s thinking “Didn’t I see a porno that started like this?” Neither did he notice the little patch she pressed to the circle of scar tissue at the back of his neck, an item of her own devising, just enough of the so-called Cure to stop his disappearing trick. There would be no exit, not till she was finished. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a plot device. It actually occurred to me, when I was almost done writing, that I had to have something to keep him from ‘porting away, which was kind of dumb on my part. So, I came up with this. Pretty clever, hunh?
He tasted of fireworks, exploding in the soft space beneath her tongue, and blood welled into the slipstream as she nicked her lip on his razor canine. And you know, if you think about it, he probably would taste sort of like the smoke that hangs in the air after a really big fireworks display. The sudden taste of copper seemed to shake him back into the moment.
Holding her away with gentle force, his startling eyes questioned and pleaded. “Fraulein… Raven….”
“Don’t.,” she said, easing a hand along the sharp edge of his jaw. “Please.”
He hesitated, faltered only for a second, but it was enough.
All things equal, he could have beaten her, even if she had not been stripped of her gifts. But nothing was ever equal. He was tired and uncertain, the time between his meals measured in days; he was truly at his weakest, and she took him completely by surprise. Otherwise, you know Nightcrawler could totally take her.
One hand around his wrist, the other gripping his collar, she spun him around and smiled at the sickening sound as his head connected with the edge of a broken pew. Another blow and she felt him go slack in her grip, dazed enough to be docile to her purpose.
Originally, she was going to push him back into the confessional box, and the porn would play out there. I decided to use the altar and the crucifix for a number of reasons, mostly because I thought it was hotter. Though, don’t be surprised if confessional sex shows up in another story.
On the altar dais, the broad chair where the celebrant priest would have rested was centred, its back formed by the heavy crossed beams of St. Andrew’s cross.Credit for this lovely little plot point goes to sabinelagrande. This was her goal, dragging him viciously up the steps to the foot of the sacramental throne. From behind the X of the martyred saint, a great crucifix rose, the carven Christ gazing down with sadness and compassion on the violent scene below. This is the second fic I’ve written where people have sex in a church and it talks about the crucified Jesus watching. I’m sure this says something significant about my subconscious.
Her victim grasped at her arm, pushing weakly at the fingers twisted in his collar. She delivered a kick to the side of his head and let him fall, beaten, beneath the towering symbol.
Swinging above the centre altar was a copper censer, its chain disappearing into the depths of the distant ceiling. Hey, look! Another plot point. The musky smell of incense still hung about it, and she imagined him lighting the dark grains, prostrating himself, enveloped in a heavenly haze. One good pull and the long chain came clattering down in a crashing pile. As she gathered the loops of metal, a flicker caught her eye; a single small candle burned in a rack to the side of the tabernacle. On a thought, she retrieved the little light and set it within easy reach. Also the second fic where a candle was involved in sex.
He realized what she was doing as she leaned him roughly against the skewed cross, and, even then, his oppositions were weakly desperate. He must have tried to teleport and, finding that he couldn’t, now sought only to delay the onslaught. Seeing his frail fight, she grinned wickedly and punched him low in the gut; he would be still for a bit, now.
Wrapped across his arms and waist, the chain held him up, kept him in place; snaking down his legs, it pulled his body flush with the shape, spread him open like a specimen for dissection. And she intended to take him apart.
Using his body for leverage, she climbed up onto the cross, one long leg braced on either side. Thick blood covered half of his face, flowing in contours around the angelic whorls etched into his skin. Drawing close, she ran her tongue around the rise of his cheek and across his bruised temple. With his blood bitter in her mouth, she put her lips to his ear and said softly “Wake up.”
His head lifted, weary eyes casting about; his mouth worked feebly as he met her mocking stare, and, finally, he forced out a whispered “Why…?”
She laughed and kissed him hard; his body tensed between her thighs, and she could almost taste the bile rising in his throat.
“Because,” she purred into his mouth. His pants were so threadbare, the fly ripped open at a pull, nothing but skin underneath. He gasped, and she slid her free hand up the inside of his thigh. “Because you deserve it.” She touched him, fingers deft, and he writhed beneath her, his sex growing hot against whatever will he had left. With a sweet, chaste kiss on the bridge of his nose, she placed a hand on either side of his face and looked directly into his eyes. “Because I can.”
I don’t really have anything to say about the actual sex part of this, except that I quite like it, and there seems to be a theme running through most of the porn I write.
Pulling the elastic tie from her black hair, she wrapped it tight around his testicles. Ow. She wasn’t about to let him have release, not until this was finished. Legs still wrapped around the cinched centre of her victim and his cross, she leaned backward to pick up the little candle. With her other hand, she stroked his battered face, tenderly, saying in a soft voice “My beautiful little boy.” Creepy, much? The confusion in his face became unfocused agony when she poured the burning wax along the length of his sex. Again, ow.
As his cry of pain dissipated into the far corners of the church, she blew out the candle and tossed it to the floor with a smile of pleasure. He panted and pulled against the restraints; she stilled him with a hand around his throat, forcing his head back into the trench between the crossed beams.
“Look up,” she growled. “There’s your god.” He cried out and twisted against her, his tail thrashing about the lower beams. She jerked his head up and struck him hard, then forced him back choking. At the same moment, she lowered herself onto his flesh, closing around him and revelling in the sounds of anguish that poured from the corners of his mouth like blood.
“Let your saviour see your sin,” she hissed between his gasps. His body heaved, and she moved with him, forcing him deeper into her, slamming his back into the cross with every surge of her vicious rhythm. His sobs tumbled down in the form of shattered words, German.
“…die Sünden von meiner Seele, die Sünden… von meinem Körper….” “…the sins of my soul, the sins… of my body…” From a version of the Act of Contrition.
The pressure and pleasure rising in her fragmented the language away from comprehension. She focused her mind only long enough to press flush against him and whisper with the utmost venom “And with your own mother.” Yeah, there was a typo there the first time I posted this, and, when it was pointed out to me, I was horrified. Talk about ruining the moment. The perfect hopelessness in his voice as it faded set her to overflow, and she threw back her head in a noise of triumph as she came, clenching around him, her nails digging into his throat. The sound of her completion rang like breaking bells in the sinking red light of the church, and she shuddered the end with a laugh and a sigh.
Her victim moaned in pain as she lifted off of his still-hard sex. She released her grip and raised his head toward her. With a smile, she gently kissed his bloody mouth before wrapping both hands around his neck and holding tight until his bright eyes fluttered closed, unconscious. I like that she alternates between tenderness and viciousness; it makes her actions that much more hurtful.
Dark shadows descended from the vaulted ceiling to fall about this tableau, as though they were sinking to the bottom of some inverted ocean, falling away from the last waves of sunlight skittering across the church floor. The sanctuary had floated completely into the depth of early night when, satisfied that the worst had been done, she turned her back upon the desecrated altar and paced evenly toward the high front doors. Behind her, hanging from the crucifix with his wrists bound about the cold neck of the Christ figure, was her victim. Witnessed by no one but sightless stained-glass, blood and semen pooling in his clothes and dripping in thin streams to the tile below, was her son. Just take a moment here to pause and picture this.
Glancing momentarily at the back of her hand, she noticed a dark flush of blue, colour familiar as her own skin. Without pausing in her stride or looking over her shoulder, she willed it away, back to the pale flesh to which she had grown accustomed. Then she passed into the shadowed street and smiled.
The End.
:shadowen: