DI Drabbles Part Two
Round two of drabbles, darlings. =3
With Xan luck, going in for a diagnostic procedure today. Xx; But for now, drabbles! =3
Today, we have two I've posted before, and am reposting for posterity, for those who missed them. The themes "Vincente thinks about..." ("Better off Alone"), and "Adrian and Mischa have a forbidden moment" ("Angel" - the long awaited A/M lime! X3) Enjoy, and remember to comment~
Title: Better Off Alone
Theme: Vincente thinks about…
Narrator: Vincente
For: LYK’s "Vincente introspective" and Missy’s "Vincente’s thoughts, involving Nobunaga"
Stipulations: introspective, serious, Vincente, thoughts on Nobunaga
Rating: PG-13 for imagery
****
It has forever been an unspoken law in the worlds of ether that immortals should not mingle in the lives of humans. In Heaven, it is law. In Hell, however, the "rules" are much more slack. The purpose of a menial demon is to raise controversy, sew distrust, wreak havoc, et cetera, along with other such cliché concepts. They are expected to lurk among the humans, silent and unnoticed, like a poison among an infestation of vermin. They go with orders to hurt, to frighten, to tempt, to challenge, and to kill, to water the seeds of human indecency and to lead them to their inevitable end.
No where in this job description does it allow for attachment, for friendship, or love.
At times such as these, I sorely missed the ability to be "evil"-to live in ignorance of the true damage my existence caused. To give into temptation, to be "bad" is always much easier than doing what is right. It is always much harder to be good.
Harder still when you are meant for the former.
It seemed to me that there was no real place for a righteous demon, and perhaps there truly is not. Were I truly righteous, I knew, I never would have been fool enough to take part in the uprising, to challenge the word of God, and to fall. No, I was never truly upstanding and benevolent, but I still believed with every fiber of my being that human beings deserved the right to live, their children the right to grow, to play and to be happy, and safe. The duty of an angel is to protect the humans, but not to guide, not to teach, and not to rescue. While small amounts of guardianship are allowed, true meddling is not. Saving a life could be excused, but stopping a rape, or a beating? Oh no, that is out of the question. Angels themselves are raised from the first with the knowledge that it is forbidden to truly interfere in the lives of the mortals. Some questioned it silently, and others never did, because they were never taught to care. Human beings outnumber we ethereals one hundred to one; for every one of them that died, another two were spawned, and so on. The loss of a life was, of course, unimportant.
Perhaps it was merely small concepts from both sides I accepted. I could not stand by and watch them suffer, and I could not be the cause of said suffering. I suppose that makes me a rebel twice.
But with righteousness comes conscience, and with conscience comes guilt. It always seemed to me that, no matter how many mortal lives I changed, it was always the ones that really mattered to me whom were forced to suffer. Sometimes I think that, just because I am Fallen, my very presence brings suffering, for every one of the few people I have ever chosen to care for have suffered, whether or not I strove against it. Perhaps it is my fate, punishment from both Heaven and Hell, to save a thousand mortals I will never love, and lose the few I do.
I am old; I have lived a very long time, and in that time I have learned that a human being is the greatest of the levels of our hierarchy. They, unlike the angels, are free to love without consequence, and unlike us all, they begin with the burden of free-will, to be good or evil as they choose. Even considering the pressures of their own people, to be one way or another, in the end, the choice is there own. Demons are evil, angels are good, but human beings can be either as they please. It is their choice. Even after my own rebirth, born to a flawed human body, I was never truly human, and never will I be. I may never fall in love, and those few people I learn to care for will always hurt because of me, because my choices have made me the target of both Heaven and Hell.
Perhaps that is my own choice, because I am too hard-pressed to keep ties with my demonic heritage. Helplessness never did suit me. As a mortal, I am sightless, and I could never protect anyone important to me in such a state. Another flaw of humanity: they are mortal, and few things can protect them from their own mortality. Even if I were to surrender my gifts and immortality to the Powers, being a demon is very well like being in a gang. Even if I detached myself and attempted to be normal, my ex-comrades would be forever after me.
And yet, as I stand bathed in power rarely matched, embraced by the intoxicating mist of my gifts and strength and wisdom, I am still helpless. Despite my power, my immortality, my intelligence, my courage, and my will, I could not protect the one human who meant anything to me.
I couldn’t save him.
When still mortal myself, I had loved a mortal woman, and I had hurt her in my own selfishness and ignorance, lost her trust and affection, never to regain it. I had spent my whole mortal life agonizing over my own foolishness. But no matter how I had hurt her, Setra survived. She survived.
Ikusa did not.
And it was my fault.
The boy that attacked the priestess never knew true pain. I had spent all of that time pitying myself, hateful of what I had done to her, the reminder forever reflected in any mirror I cared to look in. I’d wasted all of that time, and taken it for granted when another hapless mortal fell into my lap, this one dependent on me, instead of the other way around.
He had looked up to me, relied on me to guide him, and sought my approval at every turn. In human years, he was older than I, but I felt him my own child at times, watching him struggle and strive for betterment, unaware of how strong he already was. Like a child, he looked to me for praise, and when he displeased me, he was ashamed, and fought to rectify it. Others saw him as cold; I knew he was shy, afraid to let others see his uncertainty, afraid to be hurt inside, not out. He was such an obstinate man at times, proud and noble. My righteousness knew nothing in comparison to his.
When I met him, he was nothing but homeless, abused, discarded and ashamed. I suppose it made me proud to see him so strong when I’d found him so weak. He asked that I train him, and I did. I would knock him down and he would stand again, and again, unrelenting in his determination to become powerful. I worked him to the bone, to the limits of human cohesion, and he met my every challenge with vigor. He broke bones and pulled muscles and got himself knocked out more than once, and still, he stood again before me, denying his pain, his mortality. In retrospect, maybe it was my own insecurity that made me force him to become so strong. Perhaps I thought he would be safe if he was strong.
Ikusa was perhaps the strongest mortal man alive at his death, and even that didn’t save him. Even as a demon, even having seen so much, the sight of him on the ground was enough to send me into shock. As Damian shrieked and cried and carried on, I could only stare at the gore that at one time had been his chest, his ribcage. I could see the irreparable damage done to the soft, vulnerable human tissues. Organs torn, bones crushed. He was drowning in his own blood. Some silly part of my mind wished it was a nightmare, that I had fallen asleep on the Subtrain and imagined it all. But it was too gruesome to be a dream. That awful red substance leaked from every orifice, but still, he attempted to comfort Damian as he lay dying. So selfless.
He looked to me as I brushed his hair from his face, the arteries in his eyes having begun to burst along the edges, starved of oxygen. The faded gray of his eyes bored holes into my skull, and though he could barely speak, I knew it, as clearly as if he had shouted. "Have a failed you? Am I a failure?" Always afraid of letting me down, even then. It made me angry, and had the situation been different, I probably would have shouted at him for that. But instead, I told him the truth, and what he needed to hear. I told him I was proud of him, and distantly, he nodded. His lips twitched in an almost-smile.
As Damian screamed and raised a fuss, I watched my own child die. As great as he was, no one would ever know. He would never love, never have a family, never make anything of himself but a martyr for a boy who could not truly appreciate the man whom had died for him.
It was through this that I lost hope. We had fought so hard to come so far, determined to save the human race, and my own unheeding stupidity had led to the death of the only mortal I had wanted to live. Hundreds of thousands of years, I have walked this earth, and spun through the chaos that it was before the first human drew breath, and I was broken by the death of an unimportant waif of a man who had been too valiant for his own good.
For all this time, I have held to my strength, but what good is power if I cannot protect the few people that matter to me?
Until now, I have never grieved a day in my life, and now I fear I may never stop. Twice I broke the trust of someone I loved, and for my own foolishness, they suffered-and one died. For the first time, I truly wished for death. I convinced myself that by protecting others, I could fill the barren gap within myself, but I realized that the gap had been filled without my notice. And then, for my own foolishness, what had warmed it was gone.
And I wonder if I will ever recover.
****
Better Off Alone - The End
****
Title: Angel
Theme: Adrian and Mischa have a forbidden moment
Narrator: Adrian
For: Missy’s "Adrian/Mischa angst!lime"
Stipulations: Adrian/Mischa pairing, angst, lime
Extra stipulation: Song-fic (Sarah McLachlan: Angel)
Rating: R for content
Possible time-frame: Chapter 36, that night as everyone lay sleeping. (Note: This is AU, it didn’t actually happen. So sorry. ^^)
****
The thunder rolled, like the malevolent roar of an angry god, high above in the darkened sky, and the rain was relentless, pounding down without mercy over the abandoned domicile we called our haven. It seemed that even the heavens had backed us into a corner, as the blackness beyond the windowpane seemed to flicker. Perhaps it was my imagination-that was more than likely. And yet, it felt as if this night would never end. If not upon us, the eve of our destruction was steadily approaching. Our time ticked away, slowly, inevitably, like the grains of sand trickling through the hourglass of fate, counting down to the hour of our destiny.
And even being who I was, I stood powerlessly wishing I could will it to still, even to reverse. But the sand just sifted through my helpless fingers.
The creek of the door opening made me jump, the tension in my spine snapping like a pulled spring and sending me whirling on my heel to greet the beam of light that crept shyly inside. I squinted; the lamp was off, so the sudden illumination was not well-appreciated by my tired eyes. It was of no consequence, though, as the light was just as soon obstructed by a body, and blotted out by the door clicking shut once more.
"Adrian," said the voice I knew so well, but it was softer than I knew it, not as bold or brash. The shadows played beautifully over his sun-kissed skin, which I realized was very visible to me as he approached on weightless steps, slow and ethereal. His head was down, arms encircling his narrow waist almost shyly, and he came to me.
Spent all your time waiting
For that second chance,
For the break that would make it okay
There’s always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day…
He was dressed in only his jeans, eyes obscured by pale sunshine hair, and he came to stand before me, looking for all the world a shameful and forlorn soul.
The image of his fear startled me. I was unaccustomed to seeing him this way. "Mischa?" I prompted gently, reaching uncertainly for his shoulder.
Faster than I could track, his hand captured mine at the wrist, but his grip was gentle, and slowly-shyly-he guided my fingertips to his cheek. His skin felt hot, perhaps because my own was cold. He pressed my hand to his cheek, and I cupped it obligingly, watching him warily as I sat back against the window. "We’re going to die." It wasn’t a question. "I’m scared."
"We aren’t going to die."
"You don’t believe that."
I didn’t. Without looking he saw through me. But I had to say that I did, had to convince myself…
I was distracted from these thoughts when he stepped suddenly forward, and warm lips found my own. I stopped breathing as his hands rose to the nape of my neck, one tracing around the hilt of my ponytail. I feared I’d swallow my tongue from surprise, but I didn’t try to pull away. God, I was a fool, but not so much as that. But I was also not so much a fool as to ignore the way his fingers quivered against my skin.
"Mischa, what is it?" I asked when he drew away, catching his wrists to keep him from running from me. He looked like he wanted to run.
Lightning crashed outside the window, dangerously close to the house, and I wondered vaguely if we were equip with an electric rod. It seemed Raiden was truly displeased with us. The strike lit up the room a sort of blue, and it flickered in his eyes, giving them an eerie light. I realized then he was looking at me, his eyes shadowed by something that looked morbidly familiar. "Adrian…" His voice was so small, and he looked away when he saw me peering down at him. "I…I want…"
Something heavy settled in my stomach as he drew his hand from my grasp, only to take my own and guide it to his bare side. Again, his skin was hot, and he shivered beneath my touch. A flash of familiarity shot through my mind before sinking into obscurity. And I knew what he meant to say. These words I had heard before, in another time and voice, but from the very same soul.
And somehow, in that moment, I could not deny him. Bridging the distance between us, I leaned down over him, and his head tilted back instantly to accept my gesture, as if he knew by instinct. I kissed him.
I need some distraction…
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
Let me be empty
Oh and weightless and maybe
We’ll find some peace tonight
Clothing trickled thoughtlessly across the floor, in patterns engraved in my memory, from long, long ago. I knew this so well, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breath as he gasped at my touch, and the way he fit so well against me as I mapped the terrain of his body, so different from how it was then. Angles of muscle were replaced by softer curves of youth, body strong and virile, but not the same. I loved him no less for this. I tasted his skin and memories flowed back through me, and yet, the nervous buzzing of inexperience warmed the deepest part of my stomach as I lie over him. His face turned a lovely rose when I looked into his eyes, and he tried to turn away, but I stopped him. "No," I said, and smiled. He smiled sadly back, looking at me as if he hadn’t seen me in decades. As if he would never see me again. I wondered if my own eyes looked that way.
His own hands traced curiously along the planes of my back and the expanse of my shoulders, uncertain but willing to learn, and when my hair fell free around the both of us, he showed me the tie he’d so easily stolen without my notice. Such an imp, even now. He arranged the long silver strands over one shoulder, a few locks trickling over his belly and chest. He didn’t let me move them.
For the longest time, we kissed and touched each other, fingers sliding over skin, bodies brushing, and for several moments we had to share breath, both too stubborn to stop for the mere triviality of air. His body felt so wonderful against me, so warm and responsive, and the brush of my hand over his cheek, my lips over his clavicle and throat, he writhed and whispered, fingers woven into my hair. Even as I moved away from him, even as he shifted, he had to hold onto me. It seemed as if he was afraid I would leave him. Little did he know, he would never be rid of me now. As long as we both remained living. And I planned, for him, to remain alive.
In the arms of the angel, fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
Pain…
It flashed across his face even as rapture spread through me, but I held myself deathly still, settling to breathe and hold him close. My own pleasure was not worth his agony, never would it be. So I waited until he whispered that he was all right, the heel of his foot brushing across my back, urging me to motion.
I never could deny him.
My eyes remained focused on his face as we moved together in slow harmony, his eyes screwed shut in discomfort, and I wished with everything that he would stop hurting. Willed it, even, but even my powers weren’t so great. But in time, the soft hisses of pain became gasps, and my name fell from his lips in a way I never could have imagined myself, uttered a way no other creature living could match. My name on his lips was like a promise, a sonnet, beautiful poetry. It became my goal to hear it again. And again.
And again.
With every gasp and whisper, with every restrained cry and helpless groan, my hazing mind became that much more determined, the bitter black hole of my fear forgotten, devoured by the sweet inferno of our passion. Again he was my strength, even now, even here, even after all this time. And again, and always, he was mine. Only mine. I would die for this man, maim, kill and destroy, and as he arched gracefully beneath me, almost shining in the darkness, I knew that I would have to…to protect him.
Our tryst went unheard, we were careful enough for that. I lay silently on my side, his warm body curled against my chest, and felt his own rise and fall. Already, he was fast asleep, his arms framing my sides, fingers still entangled in my hair.
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
As always it had been, being with him was three things: it was forbidden, it was melancholy, and it was painfully beautiful. Outside the window, the storm raged on, but it was far from important. All that mattered was the ethereal creature breathing softly on my neck, sound asleep as if everything were right with the world. Because he felt safe, I knew. I made him feel safe.
I swore to myself, my arms drawing him nearer to me, that his trust-his love-would not be misplaced.
Never again.
Somehow, without anger, I fell asleep holding him to me. And amongst the chaos and the sadness, the grieving, the loss and the terror…
…I was content.
May you find some comfort here
****
Angel - The End
One more to post next week, and then I finish the others, if at all possible. XD <3
With Xan luck, going in for a diagnostic procedure today. Xx; But for now, drabbles! =3
Today, we have two I've posted before, and am reposting for posterity, for those who missed them. The themes "Vincente thinks about..." ("Better off Alone"), and "Adrian and Mischa have a forbidden moment" ("Angel" - the long awaited A/M lime! X3) Enjoy, and remember to comment~
Title: Better Off Alone
Theme: Vincente thinks about…
Narrator: Vincente
For: LYK’s "Vincente introspective" and Missy’s "Vincente’s thoughts, involving Nobunaga"
Stipulations: introspective, serious, Vincente, thoughts on Nobunaga
Rating: PG-13 for imagery
****
It has forever been an unspoken law in the worlds of ether that immortals should not mingle in the lives of humans. In Heaven, it is law. In Hell, however, the "rules" are much more slack. The purpose of a menial demon is to raise controversy, sew distrust, wreak havoc, et cetera, along with other such cliché concepts. They are expected to lurk among the humans, silent and unnoticed, like a poison among an infestation of vermin. They go with orders to hurt, to frighten, to tempt, to challenge, and to kill, to water the seeds of human indecency and to lead them to their inevitable end.
No where in this job description does it allow for attachment, for friendship, or love.
At times such as these, I sorely missed the ability to be "evil"-to live in ignorance of the true damage my existence caused. To give into temptation, to be "bad" is always much easier than doing what is right. It is always much harder to be good.
Harder still when you are meant for the former.
It seemed to me that there was no real place for a righteous demon, and perhaps there truly is not. Were I truly righteous, I knew, I never would have been fool enough to take part in the uprising, to challenge the word of God, and to fall. No, I was never truly upstanding and benevolent, but I still believed with every fiber of my being that human beings deserved the right to live, their children the right to grow, to play and to be happy, and safe. The duty of an angel is to protect the humans, but not to guide, not to teach, and not to rescue. While small amounts of guardianship are allowed, true meddling is not. Saving a life could be excused, but stopping a rape, or a beating? Oh no, that is out of the question. Angels themselves are raised from the first with the knowledge that it is forbidden to truly interfere in the lives of the mortals. Some questioned it silently, and others never did, because they were never taught to care. Human beings outnumber we ethereals one hundred to one; for every one of them that died, another two were spawned, and so on. The loss of a life was, of course, unimportant.
Perhaps it was merely small concepts from both sides I accepted. I could not stand by and watch them suffer, and I could not be the cause of said suffering. I suppose that makes me a rebel twice.
But with righteousness comes conscience, and with conscience comes guilt. It always seemed to me that, no matter how many mortal lives I changed, it was always the ones that really mattered to me whom were forced to suffer. Sometimes I think that, just because I am Fallen, my very presence brings suffering, for every one of the few people I have ever chosen to care for have suffered, whether or not I strove against it. Perhaps it is my fate, punishment from both Heaven and Hell, to save a thousand mortals I will never love, and lose the few I do.
I am old; I have lived a very long time, and in that time I have learned that a human being is the greatest of the levels of our hierarchy. They, unlike the angels, are free to love without consequence, and unlike us all, they begin with the burden of free-will, to be good or evil as they choose. Even considering the pressures of their own people, to be one way or another, in the end, the choice is there own. Demons are evil, angels are good, but human beings can be either as they please. It is their choice. Even after my own rebirth, born to a flawed human body, I was never truly human, and never will I be. I may never fall in love, and those few people I learn to care for will always hurt because of me, because my choices have made me the target of both Heaven and Hell.
Perhaps that is my own choice, because I am too hard-pressed to keep ties with my demonic heritage. Helplessness never did suit me. As a mortal, I am sightless, and I could never protect anyone important to me in such a state. Another flaw of humanity: they are mortal, and few things can protect them from their own mortality. Even if I were to surrender my gifts and immortality to the Powers, being a demon is very well like being in a gang. Even if I detached myself and attempted to be normal, my ex-comrades would be forever after me.
And yet, as I stand bathed in power rarely matched, embraced by the intoxicating mist of my gifts and strength and wisdom, I am still helpless. Despite my power, my immortality, my intelligence, my courage, and my will, I could not protect the one human who meant anything to me.
I couldn’t save him.
When still mortal myself, I had loved a mortal woman, and I had hurt her in my own selfishness and ignorance, lost her trust and affection, never to regain it. I had spent my whole mortal life agonizing over my own foolishness. But no matter how I had hurt her, Setra survived. She survived.
Ikusa did not.
And it was my fault.
The boy that attacked the priestess never knew true pain. I had spent all of that time pitying myself, hateful of what I had done to her, the reminder forever reflected in any mirror I cared to look in. I’d wasted all of that time, and taken it for granted when another hapless mortal fell into my lap, this one dependent on me, instead of the other way around.
He had looked up to me, relied on me to guide him, and sought my approval at every turn. In human years, he was older than I, but I felt him my own child at times, watching him struggle and strive for betterment, unaware of how strong he already was. Like a child, he looked to me for praise, and when he displeased me, he was ashamed, and fought to rectify it. Others saw him as cold; I knew he was shy, afraid to let others see his uncertainty, afraid to be hurt inside, not out. He was such an obstinate man at times, proud and noble. My righteousness knew nothing in comparison to his.
When I met him, he was nothing but homeless, abused, discarded and ashamed. I suppose it made me proud to see him so strong when I’d found him so weak. He asked that I train him, and I did. I would knock him down and he would stand again, and again, unrelenting in his determination to become powerful. I worked him to the bone, to the limits of human cohesion, and he met my every challenge with vigor. He broke bones and pulled muscles and got himself knocked out more than once, and still, he stood again before me, denying his pain, his mortality. In retrospect, maybe it was my own insecurity that made me force him to become so strong. Perhaps I thought he would be safe if he was strong.
Ikusa was perhaps the strongest mortal man alive at his death, and even that didn’t save him. Even as a demon, even having seen so much, the sight of him on the ground was enough to send me into shock. As Damian shrieked and cried and carried on, I could only stare at the gore that at one time had been his chest, his ribcage. I could see the irreparable damage done to the soft, vulnerable human tissues. Organs torn, bones crushed. He was drowning in his own blood. Some silly part of my mind wished it was a nightmare, that I had fallen asleep on the Subtrain and imagined it all. But it was too gruesome to be a dream. That awful red substance leaked from every orifice, but still, he attempted to comfort Damian as he lay dying. So selfless.
He looked to me as I brushed his hair from his face, the arteries in his eyes having begun to burst along the edges, starved of oxygen. The faded gray of his eyes bored holes into my skull, and though he could barely speak, I knew it, as clearly as if he had shouted. "Have a failed you? Am I a failure?" Always afraid of letting me down, even then. It made me angry, and had the situation been different, I probably would have shouted at him for that. But instead, I told him the truth, and what he needed to hear. I told him I was proud of him, and distantly, he nodded. His lips twitched in an almost-smile.
As Damian screamed and raised a fuss, I watched my own child die. As great as he was, no one would ever know. He would never love, never have a family, never make anything of himself but a martyr for a boy who could not truly appreciate the man whom had died for him.
It was through this that I lost hope. We had fought so hard to come so far, determined to save the human race, and my own unheeding stupidity had led to the death of the only mortal I had wanted to live. Hundreds of thousands of years, I have walked this earth, and spun through the chaos that it was before the first human drew breath, and I was broken by the death of an unimportant waif of a man who had been too valiant for his own good.
For all this time, I have held to my strength, but what good is power if I cannot protect the few people that matter to me?
Until now, I have never grieved a day in my life, and now I fear I may never stop. Twice I broke the trust of someone I loved, and for my own foolishness, they suffered-and one died. For the first time, I truly wished for death. I convinced myself that by protecting others, I could fill the barren gap within myself, but I realized that the gap had been filled without my notice. And then, for my own foolishness, what had warmed it was gone.
And I wonder if I will ever recover.
****
Better Off Alone - The End
****
Title: Angel
Theme: Adrian and Mischa have a forbidden moment
Narrator: Adrian
For: Missy’s "Adrian/Mischa angst!lime"
Stipulations: Adrian/Mischa pairing, angst, lime
Extra stipulation: Song-fic (Sarah McLachlan: Angel)
Rating: R for content
Possible time-frame: Chapter 36, that night as everyone lay sleeping. (Note: This is AU, it didn’t actually happen. So sorry. ^^)
****
The thunder rolled, like the malevolent roar of an angry god, high above in the darkened sky, and the rain was relentless, pounding down without mercy over the abandoned domicile we called our haven. It seemed that even the heavens had backed us into a corner, as the blackness beyond the windowpane seemed to flicker. Perhaps it was my imagination-that was more than likely. And yet, it felt as if this night would never end. If not upon us, the eve of our destruction was steadily approaching. Our time ticked away, slowly, inevitably, like the grains of sand trickling through the hourglass of fate, counting down to the hour of our destiny.
And even being who I was, I stood powerlessly wishing I could will it to still, even to reverse. But the sand just sifted through my helpless fingers.
The creek of the door opening made me jump, the tension in my spine snapping like a pulled spring and sending me whirling on my heel to greet the beam of light that crept shyly inside. I squinted; the lamp was off, so the sudden illumination was not well-appreciated by my tired eyes. It was of no consequence, though, as the light was just as soon obstructed by a body, and blotted out by the door clicking shut once more.
"Adrian," said the voice I knew so well, but it was softer than I knew it, not as bold or brash. The shadows played beautifully over his sun-kissed skin, which I realized was very visible to me as he approached on weightless steps, slow and ethereal. His head was down, arms encircling his narrow waist almost shyly, and he came to me.
Spent all your time waiting
For that second chance,
For the break that would make it okay
There’s always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day…
He was dressed in only his jeans, eyes obscured by pale sunshine hair, and he came to stand before me, looking for all the world a shameful and forlorn soul.
The image of his fear startled me. I was unaccustomed to seeing him this way. "Mischa?" I prompted gently, reaching uncertainly for his shoulder.
Faster than I could track, his hand captured mine at the wrist, but his grip was gentle, and slowly-shyly-he guided my fingertips to his cheek. His skin felt hot, perhaps because my own was cold. He pressed my hand to his cheek, and I cupped it obligingly, watching him warily as I sat back against the window. "We’re going to die." It wasn’t a question. "I’m scared."
"We aren’t going to die."
"You don’t believe that."
I didn’t. Without looking he saw through me. But I had to say that I did, had to convince myself…
I was distracted from these thoughts when he stepped suddenly forward, and warm lips found my own. I stopped breathing as his hands rose to the nape of my neck, one tracing around the hilt of my ponytail. I feared I’d swallow my tongue from surprise, but I didn’t try to pull away. God, I was a fool, but not so much as that. But I was also not so much a fool as to ignore the way his fingers quivered against my skin.
"Mischa, what is it?" I asked when he drew away, catching his wrists to keep him from running from me. He looked like he wanted to run.
Lightning crashed outside the window, dangerously close to the house, and I wondered vaguely if we were equip with an electric rod. It seemed Raiden was truly displeased with us. The strike lit up the room a sort of blue, and it flickered in his eyes, giving them an eerie light. I realized then he was looking at me, his eyes shadowed by something that looked morbidly familiar. "Adrian…" His voice was so small, and he looked away when he saw me peering down at him. "I…I want…"
Something heavy settled in my stomach as he drew his hand from my grasp, only to take my own and guide it to his bare side. Again, his skin was hot, and he shivered beneath my touch. A flash of familiarity shot through my mind before sinking into obscurity. And I knew what he meant to say. These words I had heard before, in another time and voice, but from the very same soul.
And somehow, in that moment, I could not deny him. Bridging the distance between us, I leaned down over him, and his head tilted back instantly to accept my gesture, as if he knew by instinct. I kissed him.
I need some distraction…
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
Let me be empty
Oh and weightless and maybe
We’ll find some peace tonight
Clothing trickled thoughtlessly across the floor, in patterns engraved in my memory, from long, long ago. I knew this so well, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his breath as he gasped at my touch, and the way he fit so well against me as I mapped the terrain of his body, so different from how it was then. Angles of muscle were replaced by softer curves of youth, body strong and virile, but not the same. I loved him no less for this. I tasted his skin and memories flowed back through me, and yet, the nervous buzzing of inexperience warmed the deepest part of my stomach as I lie over him. His face turned a lovely rose when I looked into his eyes, and he tried to turn away, but I stopped him. "No," I said, and smiled. He smiled sadly back, looking at me as if he hadn’t seen me in decades. As if he would never see me again. I wondered if my own eyes looked that way.
His own hands traced curiously along the planes of my back and the expanse of my shoulders, uncertain but willing to learn, and when my hair fell free around the both of us, he showed me the tie he’d so easily stolen without my notice. Such an imp, even now. He arranged the long silver strands over one shoulder, a few locks trickling over his belly and chest. He didn’t let me move them.
For the longest time, we kissed and touched each other, fingers sliding over skin, bodies brushing, and for several moments we had to share breath, both too stubborn to stop for the mere triviality of air. His body felt so wonderful against me, so warm and responsive, and the brush of my hand over his cheek, my lips over his clavicle and throat, he writhed and whispered, fingers woven into my hair. Even as I moved away from him, even as he shifted, he had to hold onto me. It seemed as if he was afraid I would leave him. Little did he know, he would never be rid of me now. As long as we both remained living. And I planned, for him, to remain alive.
In the arms of the angel, fly away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
Pain…
It flashed across his face even as rapture spread through me, but I held myself deathly still, settling to breathe and hold him close. My own pleasure was not worth his agony, never would it be. So I waited until he whispered that he was all right, the heel of his foot brushing across my back, urging me to motion.
I never could deny him.
My eyes remained focused on his face as we moved together in slow harmony, his eyes screwed shut in discomfort, and I wished with everything that he would stop hurting. Willed it, even, but even my powers weren’t so great. But in time, the soft hisses of pain became gasps, and my name fell from his lips in a way I never could have imagined myself, uttered a way no other creature living could match. My name on his lips was like a promise, a sonnet, beautiful poetry. It became my goal to hear it again. And again.
And again.
With every gasp and whisper, with every restrained cry and helpless groan, my hazing mind became that much more determined, the bitter black hole of my fear forgotten, devoured by the sweet inferno of our passion. Again he was my strength, even now, even here, even after all this time. And again, and always, he was mine. Only mine. I would die for this man, maim, kill and destroy, and as he arched gracefully beneath me, almost shining in the darkness, I knew that I would have to…to protect him.
Our tryst went unheard, we were careful enough for that. I lay silently on my side, his warm body curled against my chest, and felt his own rise and fall. Already, he was fast asleep, his arms framing my sides, fingers still entangled in my hair.
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
As always it had been, being with him was three things: it was forbidden, it was melancholy, and it was painfully beautiful. Outside the window, the storm raged on, but it was far from important. All that mattered was the ethereal creature breathing softly on my neck, sound asleep as if everything were right with the world. Because he felt safe, I knew. I made him feel safe.
I swore to myself, my arms drawing him nearer to me, that his trust-his love-would not be misplaced.
Never again.
Somehow, without anger, I fell asleep holding him to me. And amongst the chaos and the sadness, the grieving, the loss and the terror…
…I was content.
May you find some comfort here
****
Angel - The End
One more to post next week, and then I finish the others, if at all possible. XD <3