Ever and Forever - by Harukami
Ildon sleeps, and that is rare enough of itself. Propped up on an elbow, as still as I can be, I will watch him forever or until he wakes. Even asleep, his face is turned down.
I can still remember him.
It does not matter where we met. It could have been Nelson, among the industrial stench and smog. Wakatu before the fall. Kyo, in a garden of temptation. Owmi. /Devin/, even. Anywhere. The point is that we met.
I was a ghost to him when we met. He did not know any better. Pale skin, a thirst for blood, travelling by fading between this world and the next. What else would he believe, young as he was? But his ears opened after that, he began to hear stories about a strange race called 'Mystics'. Cruel, evil, bloodthirsty mystics.
I kiss his neck gently and, thankfully, he does not wake. He is peaceful like this.
We met on riverbanks and in grassy fields and against walls at night and in his bedroom, in his bed, hidden under sheets.
It was not a love affair or a secret forbidden romance. But there were aspects of both.
It was entertainment, and practical for feeding. And somehow, unlike either.
It was addictive, that's what it was. His red blood, flowing into me. His warm, sweat-slicked body, tangling nearly desperately around mine, his almost masked, helpless moans.
As soon as I acknowledged the addiction, of course, my assignment in that region happened to come to an end and I was called back to Orlouge. My life is based around irony.
It was Orlouge's permission that I had to beg, having found a man who would make a good mystic. He was a good swordsman even then. That is not the true reason, but it is the reason I gave. I was trusted and Orlouge was affable enough.
He wished to change Ildon himself, of course. I wished to hit him. We are territorial, as people say. For once, I did not want my territory to be his. Perhaps it began there, or maybe much earlier. I am not an accurate judge.
I bowed, smiled, said nothing, and Orlouge told me that I could change Ildon. Sometimes I wonder.
I returned. I went to him.
/He is angry, so angry, shoving me away from him. He does not accuse hysterically. He explains, voice brittle, how disappointed he was when I did not return before. He does not say 'hurt' or 'betrayed'. He does not have to./
/I kiss him, his lips, cheeks, neck, whatever until he quiets, lost, so obviously unsure of what I want, as if I can be any more clear./
/When he's quiet, I kiss him hard enough to make him stagger. I don't want to stop kissing him like this, hands tangled in his black hair./
/"Don't ever do that again," he says when I let him go and I could laugh, just laugh with the high that brings./
/He said 'ever'./
/I want him. Now. Propel him back towards the bed, and we knock things over on the way. A vase smashes. Ildon's mother calls up and he manages to call down a reassurance, voice breathy. I suck bruises onto his throat, foreplay of feeding, and of sex./
/I don't know where our clothes go and frankly I don't give a damn. Our skin touching is what matters. Like so. He does not beg, but I get the feeling that he would like to. I beg for him. "Would you die for me? Be with me forever?"/
/"Yes," he says, as if the thought of not doing so had not occurred to him. And suddenly, a gem, unexpected. "Yes. Please, hurry up."/
I'd pinned him down every way possible. Buried in his body, my teeth in his throat, my hands holding his down to the bed. I felt him die. His gasps of orgasm were followed by gasps for breath followed by nothing as I flung my will to live at him, on him, and he slept after death.
He never protested or fought or questioned his submission, he had such a loose hold on life. I should have taken that as a warning of what was possible.
I kiss his sleep-gentled lips. Oh, those lips. Mmm. I irritated Ildon once by telling him that all mystics have an oral fixation. Well, we /do/. Touching him with my hands is good, but better, more real with my lips. That thought offends Ildon, but it is still true.
He wakes. No forever today, then; I must stop watching him. He lets me kiss him a bit longer before sighing and getting up to dress. I protest without words.
"Lord Orlouge will be heading out today," Ildon says flatly. "I have to go and help prepare the carriage."
I could scream. I laugh instead. "I can think of better ways to spend the day."
"Treason," Ildon says emotionlessly. The word means nothing to him. He is aroused, I believe. I can usually tell.
I'm up from bed, propelling him none too gently against the wall, peeling his pants away, sliding down, going down.
Startled, his head thunks back against the wall, hips moving in sudden involuntary motion.
Mmm, oral fixation indeed. I am not gentle with him but allow myself some honesty in a hand trailing lightly up a hip and down, just touching.
Hard to see his expression until his head falls forward on his chest, and even then I have to twist. I allow myself to twist, I am twisted. His face is tight with arousal, brows furrowed in confusion. Ask, I think. Let me answer 'making love'. I fuck you too often, I think.
He is silent as he orgasms, silent after, though one hand rests gently on my hair. Finally he draws in a shaky breath to speak and I rejoice.
"I have to go," he says, and is suddenly all business-like motion, refastening his pants, moving away from me. Heading out the door with his gaze cast down as always.
I am left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
It is like trying to catch a ghost, perhaps. All these layers of air to grasp at. There is still something there to grasp. I have to tell myself this.
Ildon sleeps, and that is rare enough of itself. Propped up on an elbow, as still as I can be, I will watch him forever or until he wakes. Even asleep, his face is turned down.
I can still remember him.
It does not matter where we met. It could have been Nelson, among the industrial stench and smog. Wakatu before the fall. Kyo, in a garden of temptation. Owmi. /Devin/, even. Anywhere. The point is that we met.
I was a ghost to him when we met. He did not know any better. Pale skin, a thirst for blood, travelling by fading between this world and the next. What else would he believe, young as he was? But his ears opened after that, he began to hear stories about a strange race called 'Mystics'. Cruel, evil, bloodthirsty mystics.
I kiss his neck gently and, thankfully, he does not wake. He is peaceful like this.
We met on riverbanks and in grassy fields and against walls at night and in his bedroom, in his bed, hidden under sheets.
It was not a love affair or a secret forbidden romance. But there were aspects of both.
It was entertainment, and practical for feeding. And somehow, unlike either.
It was addictive, that's what it was. His red blood, flowing into me. His warm, sweat-slicked body, tangling nearly desperately around mine, his almost masked, helpless moans.
As soon as I acknowledged the addiction, of course, my assignment in that region happened to come to an end and I was called back to Orlouge. My life is based around irony.
It was Orlouge's permission that I had to beg, having found a man who would make a good mystic. He was a good swordsman even then. That is not the true reason, but it is the reason I gave. I was trusted and Orlouge was affable enough.
He wished to change Ildon himself, of course. I wished to hit him. We are territorial, as people say. For once, I did not want my territory to be his. Perhaps it began there, or maybe much earlier. I am not an accurate judge.
I bowed, smiled, said nothing, and Orlouge told me that I could change Ildon. Sometimes I wonder.
I returned. I went to him.
/He is angry, so angry, shoving me away from him. He does not accuse hysterically. He explains, voice brittle, how disappointed he was when I did not return before. He does not say 'hurt' or 'betrayed'. He does not have to./
/I kiss him, his lips, cheeks, neck, whatever until he quiets, lost, so obviously unsure of what I want, as if I can be any more clear./
/When he's quiet, I kiss him hard enough to make him stagger. I don't want to stop kissing him like this, hands tangled in his black hair./
/"Don't ever do that again," he says when I let him go and I could laugh, just laugh with the high that brings./
/He said 'ever'./
/I want him. Now. Propel him back towards the bed, and we knock things over on the way. A vase smashes. Ildon's mother calls up and he manages to call down a reassurance, voice breathy. I suck bruises onto his throat, foreplay of feeding, and of sex./
/I don't know where our clothes go and frankly I don't give a damn. Our skin touching is what matters. Like so. He does not beg, but I get the feeling that he would like to. I beg for him. "Would you die for me? Be with me forever?"/
/"Yes," he says, as if the thought of not doing so had not occurred to him. And suddenly, a gem, unexpected. "Yes. Please, hurry up."/
I'd pinned him down every way possible. Buried in his body, my teeth in his throat, my hands holding his down to the bed. I felt him die. His gasps of orgasm were followed by gasps for breath followed by nothing as I flung my will to live at him, on him, and he slept after death.
He never protested or fought or questioned his submission, he had such a loose hold on life. I should have taken that as a warning of what was possible.
I kiss his sleep-gentled lips. Oh, those lips. Mmm. I irritated Ildon once by telling him that all mystics have an oral fixation. Well, we /do/. Touching him with my hands is good, but better, more real with my lips. That thought offends Ildon, but it is still true.
He wakes. No forever today, then; I must stop watching him. He lets me kiss him a bit longer before sighing and getting up to dress. I protest without words.
"Lord Orlouge will be heading out today," Ildon says flatly. "I have to go and help prepare the carriage."
I could scream. I laugh instead. "I can think of better ways to spend the day."
"Treason," Ildon says emotionlessly. The word means nothing to him. He is aroused, I believe. I can usually tell.
I'm up from bed, propelling him none too gently against the wall, peeling his pants away, sliding down, going down.
Startled, his head thunks back against the wall, hips moving in sudden involuntary motion.
Mmm, oral fixation indeed. I am not gentle with him but allow myself some honesty in a hand trailing lightly up a hip and down, just touching.
Hard to see his expression until his head falls forward on his chest, and even then I have to twist. I allow myself to twist, I am twisted. His face is tight with arousal, brows furrowed in confusion. Ask, I think. Let me answer 'making love'. I fuck you too often, I think.
He is silent as he orgasms, silent after, though one hand rests gently on my hair. Finally he draws in a shaky breath to speak and I rejoice.
"I have to go," he says, and is suddenly all business-like motion, refastening his pants, moving away from me. Heading out the door with his gaze cast down as always.
I am left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
It is like trying to catch a ghost, perhaps. All these layers of air to grasp at. There is still something there to grasp. I have to tell myself this.