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Disclaimer - Nope, the are not mine. Even though slavery was abolished hundreds of years ago NBC still claims Jarod and all the other dudes to be their property...By writing this story, I have rather blatantly infringed upon their copyright; however, I don't really care.
ANGEL WINGS
by Shaznay
Angels.
Great, fluffy white angels.
Beating their wings above me - this, the thing that I first saw when I woke.
And her face, such a pale, tiny cutting bit of thing.
This is what an angel must look like.
This is what an avenging angel looks like.
This is what my avenging angel looks like.
My angel, my Gabriel wielding a sword of crystal.
My angel, asleep in a motel room, fingers wrapped around a gun.
And this, this is what my angel looks like.
A little blade sculpted out of diamond.
Parchment skin.
Narrow ascetic forehead.
The ever-so-slightly-hooked nose.
The eyebrows like soaring birds.
And the sharp, piercing eyes.
A blue vein pulses in them.
Another pulses in the hollow of her throat.
Breath flutters from her throat.
Fine black hair is caught in her earrings.
Faintly pink, her ridged shell ear.
And the tiny curls on her white swan neck, plastered tight with sweat.
And the dark, dark roots, the pale scalp showing through, and the low, sweet scent smell of her.
Intoxicating.
The fleshy bulge of her upper lip.
The downward sweep of the lower.
Glistening with the sweep of her pale pink tongue over cracked flesh.
Curving.
Dipping.
Very full, these.
Lush, dark berries hiding pearl-white teeth, damp mouth, oh so very wet and puckered and lovely, undoubtedly, hiding the tongue glistening with moisture, enclosing the sweet recesses of her mouth.
But not hiding the little lines by her lip,
Or the lines streaking from her eyes
Or the hollow of her cheeks.
Or even the downward slash of her mouth in sleep.
The downward slash of her mouth in slumber, so very tired and disapproving, so aching, deep and permanent, never-ending, engraved so deep, so very deep and hard, sculpted by uncaring hands like mine, and the valleys and the gouges, each gashed into her, stolen from her, taken with such appalling, appalling casualness and leaving this thin hard creature who only cuts, slices and cuts.
Oh my angel.
Oh, my poor angel.
My poor darling angel.
Slowly, gently, I pry the gun out of her tight fingers. I lay it on the dresser, letting the lump out of my fingers, letting the Smith & Wesson clank onto the plywood.
And I take her hand, her tiny, little hands, like white leaves in the wind, some sort of exotic sea shell. I uncurl the curled shell. I peel back the gleaming nails.
She sighs, arching, shifting.
I slip my mouth down into the hollow. One kiss, in the middle of the love line.
An auspicious start, as I work my lips up, dragging them against her damp flesh before settling on the dip between her third finger and her palm, the little network of criss-crossing lines, webbing between her fingers.
A kiss.
The flick of my tongue onto that bumpy skin, the taste of sweat from her crevassed skin, bitter, harsh, heavy and unexpectedly delightful in this act of penance. I wash that tiny little dip with the edge of my tongue, and I listen to the hiss of air through her teeth, the stiffening of her body as she trembles upon the cusp of awareness.
Turning her hand over, I cover each knuckle in turn, kissing each white tight-stretched protuberance, tasting the fine ridge, the seperate nerve and the hard bone.
And the last kiss, the last embrace, it leaves a ringing sound in the room, the sound of suction breaking, the sound of her other hand coming up to cup my face, the sound of her mouth coming down to meet mine - a thing is lost as she runs her palms, little hard palms that are damp with my mouth, she runs these white bits across my bare chest. She pushes me down on the bed as her knees clamp around my hips, her fingers in the small of my neck, bringing my face up to her, a flower moving towards the sun.
And sun, oh, such a sun is she.
Everything snaps down to her. Everything comes back to her lovely form, the faerae body outlined against the dark, straddling me as she dips back and forth, sweet and intense.
She is gentle.
She tries to be gentle.
She tries.
For that is the nature of angels, all angels, even avenging ones, even ones that blow upon harsh trumpets, even those who bear harsh bloody swords.
But there is an edge.
An urgency, a haste, a desperate need, a feeling that, perhaps, if this act does not proceed quickly, it will fade into the rasping static, as if this is an evanescent thing that flickers, a will-o-wisp that must be caught in a bell jar, savored for it will melt upon the tongue.
And so we build.
We climb, we crawl, we ascend to dizzying heights, lack of oxygen, until I think that we are floating above the bed, touching the ceiling, the angel and the human, the angel and the angel, the two of them, making love in the air.
And when I slide into her, the world wavers. It trembles. It shudders. Reality cannot take this.
One stroke.
She moans.
Two.
Her head falls back, red hair splaying across white flesh, white cloth, white light.
Three.
She trembles.
I run a hand across her belly.
Four.
Her ankles cross behind my back.
Five.
She sobs.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Shoulders flicking, hands condensing into these tight little balls, so very pained and stressed I want to reach out and kiss them apart.
I do.
I kiss them apart.
A courtier, he kisses the hand of the queen.
And I cannot count this quickly, not with her body pulled up tight against me, not with my hips sliding forward, pulling back, forward, back, around, a little curl, forward, back, around, not with her breath slicing the air, not with those little breathy whimpers that shudder out of her chest, not with the way her face scrunches together, the way my body blurs into hers, the way she seems to flow over me and the way the walls seem to bend inward as if little o of her mouth is too much to handle, too dark and empty and drawing and open.
And it is.
I truly think it is.
The world explodes in a shimmer of firework sparks. Cliche, yes, but they are. No other word. Fireworks. Pure slashing exhalations of sheer delight. Roman candles slicing down through the night, illuminating the dark and mysterious land.
I close my eyes against them.
She shrieks.
I sob.
She buckles.
I collapse.
And as we lie here, as we lie here entangled and damp and sweaty and panting and trembling and silent and murmuring, as we lie here, it takes no real effort, no real effort at all, to hear her wings, those beautiful white wings beating the air, kissing my cheek, those soft white feathers, those beautiful white wings of hers, wings of an angel.
This is the end. ( Duh...if you aren't blind or extremely stupid you would have figured that out all by yourself.)
ANGEL WINGS
by Shaznay
Angels.
Great, fluffy white angels.
Beating their wings above me - this, the thing that I first saw when I woke.
And her face, such a pale, tiny cutting bit of thing.
This is what an angel must look like.
This is what an avenging angel looks like.
This is what my avenging angel looks like.
My angel, my Gabriel wielding a sword of crystal.
My angel, asleep in a motel room, fingers wrapped around a gun.
And this, this is what my angel looks like.
A little blade sculpted out of diamond.
Parchment skin.
Narrow ascetic forehead.
The ever-so-slightly-hooked nose.
The eyebrows like soaring birds.
And the sharp, piercing eyes.
A blue vein pulses in them.
Another pulses in the hollow of her throat.
Breath flutters from her throat.
Fine black hair is caught in her earrings.
Faintly pink, her ridged shell ear.
And the tiny curls on her white swan neck, plastered tight with sweat.
And the dark, dark roots, the pale scalp showing through, and the low, sweet scent smell of her.
Intoxicating.
The fleshy bulge of her upper lip.
The downward sweep of the lower.
Glistening with the sweep of her pale pink tongue over cracked flesh.
Curving.
Dipping.
Very full, these.
Lush, dark berries hiding pearl-white teeth, damp mouth, oh so very wet and puckered and lovely, undoubtedly, hiding the tongue glistening with moisture, enclosing the sweet recesses of her mouth.
But not hiding the little lines by her lip,
Or the lines streaking from her eyes
Or the hollow of her cheeks.
Or even the downward slash of her mouth in sleep.
The downward slash of her mouth in slumber, so very tired and disapproving, so aching, deep and permanent, never-ending, engraved so deep, so very deep and hard, sculpted by uncaring hands like mine, and the valleys and the gouges, each gashed into her, stolen from her, taken with such appalling, appalling casualness and leaving this thin hard creature who only cuts, slices and cuts.
Oh my angel.
Oh, my poor angel.
My poor darling angel.
Slowly, gently, I pry the gun out of her tight fingers. I lay it on the dresser, letting the lump out of my fingers, letting the Smith & Wesson clank onto the plywood.
And I take her hand, her tiny, little hands, like white leaves in the wind, some sort of exotic sea shell. I uncurl the curled shell. I peel back the gleaming nails.
She sighs, arching, shifting.
I slip my mouth down into the hollow. One kiss, in the middle of the love line.
An auspicious start, as I work my lips up, dragging them against her damp flesh before settling on the dip between her third finger and her palm, the little network of criss-crossing lines, webbing between her fingers.
A kiss.
The flick of my tongue onto that bumpy skin, the taste of sweat from her crevassed skin, bitter, harsh, heavy and unexpectedly delightful in this act of penance. I wash that tiny little dip with the edge of my tongue, and I listen to the hiss of air through her teeth, the stiffening of her body as she trembles upon the cusp of awareness.
Turning her hand over, I cover each knuckle in turn, kissing each white tight-stretched protuberance, tasting the fine ridge, the seperate nerve and the hard bone.
And the last kiss, the last embrace, it leaves a ringing sound in the room, the sound of suction breaking, the sound of her other hand coming up to cup my face, the sound of her mouth coming down to meet mine - a thing is lost as she runs her palms, little hard palms that are damp with my mouth, she runs these white bits across my bare chest. She pushes me down on the bed as her knees clamp around my hips, her fingers in the small of my neck, bringing my face up to her, a flower moving towards the sun.
And sun, oh, such a sun is she.
Everything snaps down to her. Everything comes back to her lovely form, the faerae body outlined against the dark, straddling me as she dips back and forth, sweet and intense.
She is gentle.
She tries to be gentle.
She tries.
For that is the nature of angels, all angels, even avenging ones, even ones that blow upon harsh trumpets, even those who bear harsh bloody swords.
But there is an edge.
An urgency, a haste, a desperate need, a feeling that, perhaps, if this act does not proceed quickly, it will fade into the rasping static, as if this is an evanescent thing that flickers, a will-o-wisp that must be caught in a bell jar, savored for it will melt upon the tongue.
And so we build.
We climb, we crawl, we ascend to dizzying heights, lack of oxygen, until I think that we are floating above the bed, touching the ceiling, the angel and the human, the angel and the angel, the two of them, making love in the air.
And when I slide into her, the world wavers. It trembles. It shudders. Reality cannot take this.
One stroke.
She moans.
Two.
Her head falls back, red hair splaying across white flesh, white cloth, white light.
Three.
She trembles.
I run a hand across her belly.
Four.
Her ankles cross behind my back.
Five.
She sobs.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Shoulders flicking, hands condensing into these tight little balls, so very pained and stressed I want to reach out and kiss them apart.
I do.
I kiss them apart.
A courtier, he kisses the hand of the queen.
And I cannot count this quickly, not with her body pulled up tight against me, not with my hips sliding forward, pulling back, forward, back, around, a little curl, forward, back, around, not with her breath slicing the air, not with those little breathy whimpers that shudder out of her chest, not with the way her face scrunches together, the way my body blurs into hers, the way she seems to flow over me and the way the walls seem to bend inward as if little o of her mouth is too much to handle, too dark and empty and drawing and open.
And it is.
I truly think it is.
The world explodes in a shimmer of firework sparks. Cliche, yes, but they are. No other word. Fireworks. Pure slashing exhalations of sheer delight. Roman candles slicing down through the night, illuminating the dark and mysterious land.
I close my eyes against them.
She shrieks.
I sob.
She buckles.
I collapse.
And as we lie here, as we lie here entangled and damp and sweaty and panting and trembling and silent and murmuring, as we lie here, it takes no real effort, no real effort at all, to hear her wings, those beautiful white wings beating the air, kissing my cheek, those soft white feathers, those beautiful white wings of hers, wings of an angel.
This is the end. ( Duh...if you aren't blind or extremely stupid you would have figured that out all by yourself.)
