((Author's warning: This chapter contains material not suitable for anyone under the age of consent. I didn't go into excruciating detail, but it's THERE, so if you're underage or easily offended, just don't fucking READ it for heaven's sake. External linking to this scene, because there IS important plot stuff that happens in it, is driving me insane. If you're not responsible enough to decide what you do or don't want to read, then you don't deserve to have internet in the first place. You have been warned.))
He sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking. His skin was still tight over his ribs as he breathed, that feeling that he knew should be pain, but wasn't. For a brief moment, rage welled and he let out a string of quiet curses, aimed at the God above who neither heard him, nor cared. What was it that someone had once said? Hating God was like spitting at the sky. The sky wasn't bothered and you were liable to nail yourself in the face in the meantime. Growling softly under his breath, he rubbed his fingertips together. They were stained brown with henna dye. He had spent hours making delicate, precise designs across Sabbath's arms and hands and down her calves and feet. He didn't know their significance, but he knew that with that deep brown, almost black, staining her perfect skin with lines and whorls, she looked unbearably exotic. The living room smelled faintly of the red nail polish she'd put on her finger and toe nails. He'd thought black, or perhaps a deep purple, was more her color but she'd merely smirked when he suggested it. "Not my choice," she told him, and wouldn't say another word about it.
There was another thump from her room, and he slowly let his gaze turn in that direction. The quiet sound of drums, probably a CD, had been playing for the two hours she had been in there, and from time to time he had heard her voice raised in wavering, foreign song or in chanting. The smell of incense slowly drifted out and chased away the nail polish smell. There was pounding in rhythm with the drums, and he felt the floor shake when he pressed his fingertips to it, and smirked slightly. Dancing. She was dancing. What he wouldn't give to see her….
The apartment was empty. He didn't know when he became aware of it. He suddenly stirred to full wakefulness, having been lost in his own thoughts for quite a while. Standing, he curiously searched through the apartment. No Crawford, no Schuldich, no Nagi, though his computer was turned on and sitting on his bed, the screen a peculiar blank white-black. He felt somewhat… hazy, as though he was moving in a dream. As though his vision was somewhat fogged. Had someone left the window open? He headed back toward the living room, only to find the moon glaring down at him, larger and brighter than he had ever seen it. The clouds framed it and seemed to be in turmoil, and the stars flared unbelievably bright. If he reached up, he thought he might be able to touch that silken black canopy, that fathomless sky… he reached, but his fingers touched only cold glass. His nose pressed against it. That moon, that place of white sands and glass castles, it was so close, but he couldn't get to it. Both hands pressed to the glass, flattened, moved slowly down it. The floor thumped again and the heady scent of incense made his nostrils burn. What was that scent? It reminded him of steamed jungles. Of oceans. Of sand, of mountains and stick huts, of squalor and splendor next door to each other. India. India….
There was light under her doorframe. Flickering light, candle light. Farfarello liked candles, liked fire, and always had. When he had been very young, when he had been Jay McConahan, the candles at the feet of the Virgin Mary had stood for prayers, an assurance that the Mother of the Lord was watching over all of them. Candles were always lit in the church, and he liked to have lit candles around when he had his rare talks with God. They were mostly rants, strange rituals he indulged in from time to time, mockeries of the rituals he had been taught in church, back when he had wanted to be a priest, before he had known of God's lies and his curses. He found himself leaning against the doorframe, against the door, hands pressed to the wood feeling the little thumps and scrapes that marked her dancing. Dancing. The wood was warm and tempting and he heard the quailing voice that rose to accompany the drums, light as a flute trilling, but strong. There was a hiss of breath, a soft gasp, a swish of air. The drums pounded. His heart seemed to throb in time with them, or were the drums made to drum in time with the human heart? He wouldn't know. He was lightheaded, and felt almost faint, but it was a heady feeling. He wanted to collapse and at the same time wanted to run up mountains and tear oak trees from the ground. The insides of his wrists throbbed with his heart. With the drums.
His fingers found the doorknob. NO… this was a sacred place. He mustn't intrude, mustn't interrupt. He had to stay well clear of this place, this place that was filled with magick that tingled against his skin like a thousand firecrackers. He shouldn't go in, but he felt called, beckoned. And the door swung slowly, silently open.
Sabbath. But it was not Sabbath – something had changed, something drastic. She bowed and bent low as she whirled around the circle, arms moving fluidly around her, feet tracing gracefully over the floor. Golden armbands decorated her biceps and her ankles were draped with golden scales. She had painted her finger and toe nails red, along with her eyelids and lips. She didn't have a golden headdress, so she had braided gold into her hair. Kali's tilaka was painted onto her forehead in red and light blue, and she was bare-chested, full breasts moving with her as she danced. She wore a necklace – plastic skulls tied together with gold ribbon. A few more gold necklaces looped her slender throat. And she positively reeked of Power, of authority, of a sort of mad exuberance. Her skin was white instead of black and she had only two arms, but in all other aspects, with twin daggers held in her small-boned hands, she was very image of Kali Ma.
And then She turned, and She saw him, and something was very different about those black eyes, about those red lips when they parted in breathy recognition. Sabbath was still in there somewhere, and he knew she knew him. This beautiful, dangerous, graceful creature was her, but at the same time, not her.
Avatar.
He saw two more knives, his own, lent to her earlier, tucked into the red and black skirt, decorated with a handprint design, that was wrapped around her waist. It was thin, and hid very little in the flickering light as the dark forms of her legs moved. Her footwork continued, but she remained in place, watching him with eyes he didn't know, hands tracing elaborate patterns around her body. Her breathing quickened. He didn't realize he'd moved forward until she spun away and vanished from his sight, disappearing in the direction of his blind side. He turned, eye scanning the room. He saw her altar, a large bronze statue of the Goddess Herself holding centerpiece position. It was surrounded by red, black, and gold candles. More candles were placed around the room, along with a few more images. Posters, he realized. Had they always been there? Had she bought these on their shopping trip earlier in the day? He didn't know. Kali dancing in the flames of a funeral pyre, Kali vanquishing a demon, Kali dancing on Shiva after having ravished him. And always, she was dancing. Depicted in many forms and many outfits, she was always dancing. Hers was the dance of life and death, of creation and destruction.
"I am the death of ego," came the whispered voice and he whirled, only to find that she was not there. He felt sluggish, and still his head was light. "I am the death of all." He turned again and caught sight of a single white limb, resplendent in whorls of dark henna, vanishing into shadow. He turned to pinpoint the altar and there she was, standing before it, watching him hungrily. "I am the Destroyer, the dark of the moon, the Goddess. I am the devourer."
"And I am the devil," he murmured back, sidestepping, feeling somewhat threatened by this… creature. "I am the hunter, the destroyer of God's works. The adversary of the Liar."
She chuckled. "I know." Whispered words fell from blooded lips, and he realized suddenly that that really was blood. Stepping closer, he spotted a chalice on the altar, filled with something red. "I know who you are. And what you are. You would be my ally against the marauding God, that twisted symbol of masculine domination, and yet you care not for me. Who do you serve then, Farfarello?"
"The truth," he murmured, fingers flexing slowly. There were blades hidden in his clothing. He could draw them at any time. He could trace those designs with blood and puncture a tongue, share the blood on her lips.
She laughed. "I am the truth!" She told him, slipping one blade into her skirt and picking up the chalice. "I am the cycle!" She tilted her head back as the drumming sped, reaching a crescendo, making the entire room throb. It could not be as loud as he felt it was, could it? It had barely been audible on the other side of the door. Drinking deeply from the goblet, she bared red-stained teeth at him and offered it to him.
He drank. It was not blood. It was wine, red wine, some sort of spiced wine. When he lowered the goblet she was gone again and the intoxicating combination of scent, sound, and flickering flames was beginning to get to him. He felt he might drown, that there was not enough air to feed his lungs. Then he recognized a slightly sweet scent beneath the incense and whirled, spotting her where she swayed, around the circle, always in a clockwise direction. He too had moved clockwise since entering, without thinking about it much, except that the room seemed to spin and he was merely following it. "Marijuana," he said simply. It was not a question.
"Would you be in the proper state of mind otherwise?" she inquired, laughing. "Most humans cannot see the divine with their own eyes. They are stuck too deeply in their bodies. They are too banal, too sane, too hung up on reason and logic. When you come here, you come into MY sanctuary, where no one keeps their feet on the ground and the sky is the best place for your head to be. Outside, there is science, but here there is magick. This place is SACRED. Did you thoughtlessly invade it without knowing so?" Her tone turned accusatory, and he considered that accusation.
"No."
She smirked. "You came to me." Her voice was softer, more like the witch's that he knew.
"Yes."
"Sometimes you scare me, Farf." She moved toward him, stepping in rhythm, but no longer dancing. "You're not scared of me, are you?" Dark brown eyes fixed on his, capturing his gaze, gravely solemn.
He stared into those depths for a long moment, saw the flames flicker there, saw the Goddess dancing there, and said, "no."
She broke into a barbaric grin and he returned it, and then she took his arms, pulling him with her, whirling around the circle to where the altar sat at the south-most point. She reached down beside it and found something there, a red pencil. Her fingers found the strap of his eye-patch and pulled it over his head. They brushed the empty socket, the metal staples that held the skin together over it, and then her other hand cupped his face and she was drawing something on his forehead. His skin tingled. "What is it?" he asked quietly. His voice was steady. He was part of this now… there was no danger in it for him, and damned if he'd care much if there was. There were benefits to being insane.
"It means Rakshasa," she murmured. "Devil. You are no Shiva, sorry. The Rakshasas were a force of demons, evil spirits led by Ravana, also known as Iblis, or Azreal. They interfered with the rituals of priests, creating spiritual hurdles to prevent those priests from gaining divine support. They were air-aspected spirits," She told him slyly. "Like the great bird, Farfarello….."
He smiled darkly into the eyes of the witch, and the Goddess smiled back at him. Her tongue slipped out, running along her lips slowly, and she bolted up and away from him, whipping in a circle as the drums pounded. Her laughter rang out, dark and joyous, and he glanced down at the bronze representation of the goddess before rising slowly. On the balls of his feet, he tested himself and found he was itching to move. It was hot in this room, almost unbearably hot. He stripped off his loose black shirt, revealing the two knives strapped to his forearms and the two hilts slipped into his pants. His body was traced with scars, pale marks that testified to a life lived on the edge of death, muscled and lithe. He had no shoes on. The hardwood was warm under his calloused feet.
She arched back almost double and let out a wild cry toward the ceiling, and his heart thudded in anticipation. He looked down and now he could see the circle, drawn in red chalk, with symbols etched along the inner edge. This was the barrier between worlds. It intersected the doorway. Stepping through the doorframe, he had entered this place of the divine. It included most of the room, excluding only the corners. It gave them room, and room they would need.
The drums dropped in volume and beat more quickly, and he felt himself panting, moving forward in a stalking lope, catching up with his witch where she danced and whirling around her. Clockwise, always clockwise, and he didn't pause to wonder why. He sucked in a breath, teeth grinding together as his bones vibrated with the throbbing beat. He had to move or he'd drop where he stood.
My homeland has a saying: never give a sword to a man who cannot dance.
He felt the rhythm and fell into it gracefully. He didn't know her style, but it was fluid, flickering like the flame, so he fixed his gaze on the candlelight and the way his shadow played against the walls, and he became the flame.
So, between you and God, who's the better dancer?
She whirled around him, uttering cries from time to time, body bending gracefully forward and back, down and around. She stomped on the floor and whirled, knives tracing a deadly dance around Her. She had no battle skill with them, but it was beautiful. She was beautiful.
Mine is the dance of blood and pain, of tears and suffering.
He drew in breath, feeling his ribs shift under their bindings, white bandages stark against even his pale skin. He turned and found himself moving, stepping, turning. Always with the drums, always moving with the circle.
I have never faltered, never missed a step. On the bodies of his chosen ones, I dance with joy and malice.
Flutes joined the drums, tracing melodies that swirled in and out of and around each other like ribbons in the wind. They were water and air, and the drums were earth and fire. They spun him around and made him dip low to the ground as he turned, feet whispering across the floor.
I am wickedness, come to oppose goodness. You think I don't really understand all that entails, but I DO.
Something bubbled up from his gut and he let it out, a cry, feral and hungry. His hands found metal and the knives became a part of his dance, the steel reflecting the firelight and tracing patterns in the air around him even deadlier than the Goddess's. Because he was a killer, he was a destroyer, he was a ravager.
Without goodness, there can be no wickedness.
There was warmth and pressure against his back and he let himself lean against the witch for the briefest moment before they parted, spinning away from each other, stepping around and around in circles, sticking close, two planets orbiting each other. No, not planets, suns; burning, flaring and receding, swelling and dying. She gasped as he let out another cry, she cried out as he gasped, and he felt her breath whoosh out against the skin of his chest as they faced each other, only too briefly, before separating again.
…In the black cavern at the centre of all infinity, where Azathoth gnaws ravenously in ultimate chaos amid the mad beating of hidden drums….
DUM DUM.
Her breasts pressed against him and she stared up as he stared down, held, frozen in a moment of eternal recognition.
DUM DUM, DUM DUM, DUM DUM….. DUM … DUM … DUM DUM DUM….
The beating of the drums took over for the litany of words in his mind. He stepped to the side, she to the opposite, his left hand finding and entwining with her left hand as he stepped back to original positions and then to the other side, pushed apart, came together, pushed apart, spun under and through each other, whirled in and out, and always, always circled.
DUMDUM DUMDUM DUMDUM DUMDUM DUM…. DUMDUMDUM DUM….
He pulled her toward him, dipping his head, tasting spiced honey and patchouli on her skin. Her other hand slid up his chest, curled behind his neck. Hadn't they had blades at some point? He couldn't remember losing them or putting them away.
DUM…. DUM DUM DUM DUM….
A flute trilled wildly and his lips brushed hers, his free hand sliding around her waist, pulling her against him. Still, they were spinning. She drew him down and locked her mouth to his even as he locked his body to hers. Somehow, her fingers found hold in his hair even as his tongue found hers and tangled with it.
DUM DUM… dumdumdum, dumdumdum, dumdumdum, DUM DUM…
She yanked his head back and twisted free of his hands, and he snarled at finding her gone. She made a beeline for the altar, reaching out, hand closing around something even as a pair of strong arms wound around her waist and hauled her back, propelling her toward the bed, which rested within the circle's confines. She stumbled, found her balance, whirled, and leaped onto him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist. Her mouth found his again and plundered it; he managed to catch her without toppling and pushed forward, falling. Her back hit the mattress and he sank down into her, her skin fevered against his as his teeth found her lower lip and worried at it.
DUM… DUMDUMDUM DUM….DUMDUMDUM DUM….dumdumdumdumdum dum, dumdumdumdumdum dum…..
He tore the necklace of skulls from her. The others weren't bothersome so he let them be. Her fingers found the button of his pants and tore it free, ripped the zipper down even as he pulled the knotted ends of her skirt apart and unraveled the thin length of material. They rolled and his hands found the headboard as she tore at his pants and he kicked them off, releasing the wood just in time to catch his goddess as she pounced on him again. Her nails dug into his shoulders, his nails dug into her hips.
Dumdumdum… dumdumdum…dumdumdum… dumdumdum… DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM… DUMDUM….
Her teeth found his throat and he arched, pulling her down, drawing a leg up and finding the leverage to flip them again. She sucked in a breath as he found her shoulder, crying out as he bit down, hands gripping her thighs and kneading until one slipped between them. His fingertips danced along her clit and further down, sliding easily into her body. Gods… she burned, arching into his hands and crying out, tight and wet, ready for him. He surged against her, her blood trickling across his tongue, thick and sweet. She shifted, he shifted, and her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands on his shoulders drawing him down, nails digging into his skin, demanding.
DUM dum dum dum DUM dum dum dum DUM dum dum dum DUM DUM DUMDUM….
She let out a throaty groan. All the encouragement he needed. He slid his hands under her, lifted her, drove forward and buried himself inside her.
DUM DUM dumdumdum, dumdumdum, dumdumdum DUM DUM ….
They both screamed, he into her shoulder, she into his ear. He set the rhythm, hard and fast, influenced not a little by the throbbing beat that seemed to shake the walls now, seemed to dictate the pulse of his blood, and every thrust tore a cry from her throat, a plea for fulfillment, a demand for more, faster, harder, deeper. Her body undulated beneath his, soft and strong, clenching blissfully around his cock even as her arms clenched blissfully around him. Sealed together with blood and sweat, locked.
"Farf!"
He pulled her up, tighter against him, and she groaned, meeting his thrusts, moving her body against his.
"Farf, yes… just… like… that…."
Something flared at the base of his spine and swelled, racing through his blood, stealing his breath, making his heart skip. His skin burned. He pulled back further to thrust into her deeper and heard approving cries wrung from her throat. His tongue worked at her shoulder, at the red and bleeding marks in it, feeling along her skin before sealing his lips over the wound and sucking, hard. She ground up against him again and threw her head back, whimpering, nails digging deeply into his back as her body convulsed hard under his and tightened like a vise. Her scream was delicious, more than delicious, and her throat vibrated against his cheek as she continued to convulse, to shake, muscles trembling violently as wave after wave of pleasure battered her, sweetening her blood. She pulled at him, gripped him, enveloped him and he sped, release beckoning to him if he could only push over that edge.
There was no need to push when she dragged, he discovered, a feral roar losing itself in her skin and the mattress beneath it as he came and hung suspended, caught in the throes of orgasm for an instant that seemed to stretch on and on, an explosion of the slow build-up of power they had been creating since she had started her dance, since he had joined her. It was transcendental, sublime, and altogether just too much… and then that ecstatic haze was sucked down, drained from him, leaving him exhausted and sated in the arms of his witch. Her body shuddered and slowly relaxed and he felt the drawing away of their energy, wondered at it… until he turned his head and saw one of her hands, stretched out to the bedside table and clenched around a small, crystal box.
Blackness claimed him.
X-X-X
Sunlight woke him the next morning, slowly, drawing him up from the depths of dreams where he had spent the night. The dreams had been fuzzy and disjointed, but in a soothing way, seeming to fly past him before he could get a grip on him, ringing with children's laughter and musical tones. He felt the warmth of the sun against his skin and stretched, and it was the movement, really, that woke him up. Head falling to the side, he saw a closed door that was not familiar to him and he remembered that he was not in his own room.
He sat up and brushed a few stray strands of hair from his face, fingers skating over his forehead and pausing as he realized he wasn't wearing his eye patch. A cursory scan of the room located it on the floor, along with the rest of his clothes, and he paused thoughtfully. Then, as sound began to filter into his consciousness, he noticed the thrum of running water and turned to gaze hard at the door.
It held no answers for him, and he wasn't even sure what his questions were.
By the time Sabbath emerged from the bathroom, drying her hair in a towel, he was dressed and kneeling in front of her altar. One hand was outstretched, the longest finger resting on the forehead of Kali's bronze effigy. He didn't turn to look at her, eye closed, breaths even, though he very clearly heard her light steps. Clumsy – she did not know how to move like a predator and she was no more graceful now than all women were, natural in their grace. But she was still small, slender, and thus even the contact of her heels on the wood of the floor was not so jarring. She stopped behind him, also staring at the statue of the goddess, and for a long moment neither of them said anything. Then she stepped forward and dropped to the floor solidly next to him, legs crossed, small feet tucked under her thighs. She was wearing jeans and a red t-shirt, with a red bandana tied around the knee of one pant leg for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom. Red was a bold color, and on her it was striking, but he could feel that her reasons for wearing it went beyond fashion sense. He glanced away from her, toward one of the posters that portrayed Kali Ma in full dress. She was wearing red. Red was considered by Hindus and Gypsies, who had originally come from India, to be the color of death. Red was the color of blood, of love, of hatred, and of all passions. Red was the color of the tilaka that remained upon her forehead, though she'd scrubbed the henna nearly off. The designs still remained, so faded as to be ephemeral, but still noticeable against her skin.
Her lips were bare, though, and her eyes were once again outlined in black. When he finally turned his head and met them, he saw his witch, not the goddess of death and life, staring back at him. Sabbath in all her humanness. She looked frail. He wondered idly how much her stunt last night had taken out of her, and remembered red-nailed fingers curled around a small quartz box.
"What do you think of Her?" Sabbath inquired, her tone possessing the lilt of childish innocence.
"I think that I should think She is false," he replied honestly, "but inside I don't feel that. Inside, I feel… drums."
She snorted quietly. "Yeah, well, that's better than being accused of blasphemy, I guess," she said with amusement. "I guess it's fairly obvious that She liked you." A smile pulled at her lips, and for whatever reason, she tried (and failed) to fight it back.
Farfarello smirked. "Hm."
She sighed and shook out her hair, wet strands clinging to her skin. "Stop that. I want to know what you think."
"About?"
"THIS!" she exploded, rocking forward and gesturing around the room, in a vague sort of 'everything' motion. "You can't have just dismissed the whole thing. If you have, I think I'll strangle you."
He refocused his attention on the statue, Kali's distended tongue licking at the air, her eyes focused on him, wild and hungry. "It was sacred," he told her simply. "Touching the divine."
"The divinely frightening."
His lips twitched. "The divine." He touched that tongue, fingertip following its curve to the wicked point. "What does she taste?"
"The blood of the demon Raktabija," Sabbath explained. "The story's been around the block a couple times, so there's a few different versions. The simplest way to put it is this: Raktabija obtained a boon from the gods, that every time he was wounded in battle, every drop of blood that hit the ground would rise up as another Raktabija, strong, whole, and even more powerful than the last. When Raktabija began to abuse his power, the gods all stood against him, but whenever they wounded him, a dozen more Raktabijas sprang up in his place. In despair, they cried to the great mother, Kali. She consented to battle Raktabija, and when she wounded him she immediately pressed her lips to the wound and drank all of his blood thus preventing him from rebirthing himself." Sabbath smiled at the statue. "And also, she just craves blood. Period."
He took in this story with a slightly tilted head, full lips parted. The goddess stared back at him, insane and insatiable.
Falling silent, Sabbath let out a quiet sigh and crawled over to nuzzle up under Farfarello's arm. "Let's not do this awkward thing," she said darkly. "I'll kill something if I have to fuck with that."
He patted her head. "Murder is cathartic, Sab. Would you like some help?"
"Shut up, you," she muttered, but she was not angry. He smirked slightly.
"Can we do that again?"
A laugh rippled from her chest at the lilt of insane glee in his tone. "The ritual or the sex?"
"Sex, of course." His head swiveled, and then she was looking up into a sea of gold. "I marked you," he observed, leaning down and digging his teeth into her shoulder where the bite wound from the previous night was hidden by thin cotton.
"Yeah, well, you've got nail marks all over your back, so I guess we're even." She yawned. "Ne, Farf?"
He'd switched to gnawing on her neck now, and his only response was a small, throaty sound.
"This isn't going to last."
He pulled back and eyed her. Whatever was going through his mind was lost to her in that moment, drowned in his unfathomable silence. "Did you think it would?" he inquired finally.
"No. I just wanted to make sure we were both aware."
"It is pointless to hide from reality," he told her. "Our paths do not remain crossed for very long, and that is just the way of things."
She nodded. "Okay. Just making sure. I'd hate to… you know, break your heart or something."
He blinked. "I hate God. I like you. I like Schuldich. I hate lies. Emotions contained in the heart, most would say. And they would also say I don't have a heart to break. Personally, I am inclined to agree with the latter. Those emotions come from somewhere else," he told her matter-of-factly.
She shrugged. "Lust and hatred come from here and here." She tapped his sternum and his thigh, and then his heart, saying "not from here. Though love does come from here and if you remember, you did say you loved me. Was that a lie?" She watched him warily, half-expecting him to fly into a rage upon the accusation, but he simply tilted his head thoughtfully, lips falling open as he sank into the stream of his own consciousness. She waited patiently, fingers running back and forth over one muscled, leather-encased thigh. Finally, he turned his head down, to look at her.
"It was not a lie, it was a misstatement. I love you as much as something like me is capable of that emotion. And what I feel might not be love, because it certainly is not pure or selfless. It would be something twisted, something just a bit less holy. But it is affection and lust and admiration. Those things all mixed together. Is it enough?"
"You feel that way toward Schu, don't you?"
"Yes."
She nodded and shifted, dropping her head in his lap. He petted her hair. "Okay, just checking."
"Does it bother you?" He sounded blackly amused.
She chuckled. "Nah. I don't own you anyway."
He tilted his head. "Well, you claim a piece of me now. As I claim a piece of you."
"You want a finger or a toe?" she wise-cracked, and he smirked deeply.
"I want everything. I want to taste you," he murmured, the backs of his nails making half-threatening, half-soothing movements over her neck.
"Mmmm. I'd jump on a silver platter and skate myself over to you, Farf, but like I said, this isn't going to last."
"No," he agreed. "But that is in the future. This is here and now." His fingers slid around her neck. Its curve was strong and graceful. "Here and now, you are mine."
Something in her bristled at the claim of ownership. "Here and now, I'm my own," she shot back. "And if I deign to give myself to you, that just makes you one lucky son of a bitch."
"My mother was a bitch," he said easily. "But you're mistaken. You gave yourself to me and that's the end of it… I own you now. Do you object?" His lips pulled back from his teeth just slightly, making it plain that he'd enjoy reinforcing his claim if she refused to acknowledge it.
She tried to sit up and he held her down. "YES, I object… get off!" She scrambled backwards and he wound a hand in her hair, forcing her to stop short. Her hands closed around his fingers and tried to pry them loose, and he caught her by the shirt, yanking her close and drawing the scent of her hair into his lungs. Something herbal and delicious. His teeth closed on her neck and she yelped as he bit down, not quite enough to draw blood. He wrestled her onto her back and she fought him the entire way down, strong enough to make him work for it but not strong enough to stop him. Her knee slammed into his groin, but it didn't manage to shift him.
"You still fight as though your opponent can be hurt," he told her devilishly, listening to her grunt and growl under him. "You've forgotten what I am. A devil, remember? And you are my witch. MINE."
"Witches don't believe in Satan and we don't traffic in devils," Sabbath snarled, struggling like a little maniac. "I'm going to fucking KILL you…"
"By all means, send me to the Maker's arms. Let me face him as I wish." Farfarello was laughing in her ear. "If you can. But you can't, can you? You wouldn't kill me even if you had to. And I wouldn't kill you either… you're amusing." He wrestled with her until he was stretched out on top of her, his hips grinding hers down into the floor. She growled at him through bared teeth as he hovered over her, nose to nose, but her movement under him was more grinding back against him and less struggling to get away. "You see, I can claim you. Because you like this," he told her matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, well, you're a sexy little psychopath," she shot back. "I might let you believe you own me just to get you into bed again, but that doesn't mean you DO." Her lips curled up in a nasty smirk.
"And I might let you believe you are still your own just to keep you in my bed, but that doesn't mean you actually ARE," he replied blithely, lips brushing hers. "So who is pretending and who knows the truth?"
"You're pretending and I know the truth," She told him confidently. "Because I'm an American and nobody owns me unless I say they do."
He laughed. "You think your rights are so unaliable? You have a lot to learn, little witch. Let's start with this: " He kissed her, thoroughly, teeth tearing at her lower lip when it refused to part from the upper for him. "I can claim you if I want to, and if you can't refute my claim, you're stuck, aren't you? Like now. God gave man free will, but another man can take it away… if you let him."
"Is that what Eszet's done to you?" she growled, obviously a shot at his pride.
But he merely shrugged. "Eszet does not have their claws in me. I have told you before: I will never serve Eszet. I serve only Schwarz."
"Schwarz serves Eszet!"
His lips twitched upward. "… In theory. In reality, we of Schwarz serve ourselves. And Eszet is a means to an end."
She chuckled. "Do you really think you can use THEM, Farf? I've heard enough Eszet horror stories to know better. You don't use them. They use you. And they're always two steps ahead."
"They cannot be two steps ahead of a madman," he told her, chuckling under his breath as his teeth grazed her throat. "We dance in circles. Two steps ahead of us is also four steps behind."
"That was very poetic," she told him. "Now, GET OFF."
"No." He bit her.
"OW. Farf, off. Now, now, NOW!"
"Mine, mine, mine," he returned in a sing-song giggle, fingers finding her wrists and digging cruelly into them.
"I'm SO going to hurt you when I…. I forgot who I'm talking to." She let out a sigh, head falling back with a thunk.
He laughed. "So you have. Give up?"
"Sure." She shrugged absently and lay sprawled against the floor. "I give. Now, let me up?"
"I don't think so. You're warm," he observed and proceeded to cuddle down into her, fingers still painfully tight around her wrists. "And small." His hip bone ground painfully against her thigh.
"Ow," she complained mildly, shifting and glaring at him. "You just want me to fight, don't you?"
"Mm," he murmured noncommittally, biting her again. Pain flared in her shoulder and she found a length of exposed skin – his neck – and bit back. He groaned. "Mine…."
"Don't claim something you can't keep," she growled against his skin.
He sighed and sat back. "Here, now, on this floor, in this room. Once that door is open, I can promise nothing, nor would I want to. But HERE…." His eye bore into hers, depthless, golden.
She had to smile, even if it was sad. "Here… yours. Just for a while."
"Time is fleeting. And we are wasting it," he observed.
She threw her head back, cracking it against the floor again, and laughed. "OW….. Goddess, Farf. 'Sexpot' is never an image I imagined for you."
"I am many things," he told her as his grip on her wrists loosened and he shifted, no longer pressing her bones into the hardwood. "At this moment…."
"Mine," she finished with a chuckle, arms twisting until her wrists were free so that her fingers could find his clothing and knot in it. "Mine, mine, mine."
X-X-X