Unubore no Kanshin

I allow day after day, week after week, to pass without incident. I just keep paying the bills, keep him in comfort. But atieatience is wearing thin. I, who have more patience than the saltwater crocodile who waits in the shallows for months in hopes that something will pass his way, have grown weary of just watching.
He sleeps. So often he sleeps. When there is little else for him to do, trapped by the lightsideside, he catnaps on and off. It's moments like this that I desire him most. So like a little child as he slumbers, curled around himself, still dressed. So like an angel as he lay entwined beneath his eiderdown, still in a state of death within death. That little death living and undead must partake in for sanity's sake.
I watch him now as his eyes roll in a dream state. I can't bear this any longer. The watching, while pleasurable in it's own right, is not my ultimate end. No. Now is the time.
He doesn't stir as I creep from my place in the walls to hover over the edge of the bed. The dull light in the room plays tricks with my eyes, and as he sinks deeper into his mind, he looks all of sixteen for a moment or two. I stare at his bare back, so vulnerable in its nakedness, and reach out a hand to touch it.
He flinches, but doesn't pull away. Soft. Softer than I imagined it. And warmer. Not human warmth, no, but still a bit more so than an average vampire. But then he's no average vampire, is he? My other hand joins its brother and I allow my fingertips to dance over spine and ribs and shoulders. He purrs. And wakes.
“Mnn… Dru…?” he mutters, still half-asleep. Too entranced with this intimate contact, I answer when I should have remained silent.
“No… not Dru…”
He moves like skyfire. In a second we're no longer touching, and he's wheeled around to face me, eyes glowing. Crouched on the bed, he looks all the part of a cornered wildcat, teeth bared, demon showing. And still he's glorious.
“Who're you?” he snarls. I don't answer and I don't back away, “What do you want?”
“You.”
He snorts, amused, I think… or insulted. Then he catches my scent, and I see him cow a little. If his flesh doesn't know, the demon within does. He looks me over, cautious, and I can see his resolve waver.
“You're not human…”
“Not even close.” His eyes dart across my gangly, almost disproportionate frame. Curiosity seems to have gotten the better of him…
“Let me see what you really look like.”
I nod. He scrambles back on the bed as I resume my true-shape. I'm a little surprised he's so unnerved by my appearance. True, it was a dramatic change, but…
“What are you?”
“A demon, like you.”
“Not like me, I don't think…” his voice is soft now, tinged with awe. He's never set eyes on my like before, but he understands his place. Among the hierarchy of Hell, I have my own office. He's stuck in the mail room, if that…
I reach out and gently stroke his thigh, a tender gesture. He twitches, but knows better than to fight me if he wants to live, as it was. He doesn't understand that I would never slaughter him like he's done so many minions who've failed him. This is pleasure, not business.
My hands on his shoulders; I pull him close. His eyes are wide with a mix of fear, anticipation, and impishness. I lay my lips on his, and feel his fangs prick them. Is he reciprocating out of acceptance or desire…?
He lies still as I allow my hands to explore every inch of the glorious body I've hungered for at a distance for so long. His eyes are on my body though, and I can smell the nervousness in him, even if I couldn't read it on his face.
I coax him onto his stomach and rub my hand over his back, feeling his ribs beneath lean flesh. I slide down to his thighs and calves, massaging the tense muscles, desperately trying to get him to relax. I feel some of the stiffness melt away under my ministrations. That's when I move up.
He flinches when I rest my hands on his tight backside. If he has any doubts about my intentions, it must become clear when I gently part those smooth globes. I feel all the tension I'd thought gone return, and then some. I can't bear that he fears, or worse, despises me. I can't.
I stretch out on the bed beside him, taking on the appearance of a dimestore romance cover hunk, hoping to soothe him a bit, and pull his body close to mine, spooning it. He goes totally limp. I don't want this, either.
I begin to whisper into his ear of my desire for him, my love. His eyebrow raises in the most seductive look of curiosity and intrigue I've ever seen when I make him promises of granting his every whim and desire, the powers of Hell at his fingertips, if he will just allow me this occasional pleasure. Perhaps I've set myself too vulnerable in this, but is he not worth it?
He makes me promise to deliver the Slayer to him. Not dead, though. He wants the pleasure of glutting himself on her sweet vital juices himself. I'm free to do as I will with his grandsire, so long as he gets to watch as he dies. His pretty, bow lips turn up at the corners in boyish glee at the thought of slaking his thirst on the Slayer before the eyes of this Angelus individual. I cannot feel sorry for either of them, for anyone who causes my beauty anguish.
He relaxes again, still smiling, and plays with a lock of the ebon hair that rests against my darkly tanned shoulder. I tell him I can take the form of anything, anyone he likes, but he shakes his head. I'm just fine as I am, he says. His eyes glitter, and I know he's drunk with the thought of the power now in his hands. That's fine. I don't ask that he love me, only that he allow me to love him.
I tip my head forward and allow my hair to tickle his throat and face, then gently nuzzle his neck and back. Ticklish, I note, as he tries to suppress a giggle. My tongue snakes out and runs across his shoulderblades, up and down his spine. Four inches longer than the most gifted human, I'm more suited for pleasuring females, and would gladly if I ever came across one nearly as desirable as him.
I leave his side for a moment to rummage in the bathroom. I know it's here… I saw it only… ah! After a bit of rummaging I find what I want. The coconut-scented oil he uses to soothe the occasional fight-based scuff or scrape has always intoxicated me as much as the bruises to his pale flesh incensed me.
He tilts his head a bit, birdlike, and purses his lips as I return, oil in hand. He seems almost surprised. Doesn't he understand yet that I don't want to hurt him in any way? He more than any other should understand that demons are capable of love and gentleness. But he's had a hard life, hasn't he?
I sit on the bed and try to decide how best to do this. He takes this as a cue to take over and motions for me to lie down. I watch in fascination as he pops the cap on the oil and drizzles it over my rapidly hardening shaft. His fingers touch my flesh, and I feel electricity shoot through their tips to every point in my body. He has the hands of a sculptor, carefully working the oil so it covers every inch evenly, paying special attention to the bulging vein on the underside. Intrigued by it, he runs the pad of one finger up and down it several times, watching it twitch, then the nails of thumb and index finger on either side, pinching slightly. The sensation! It's not enough pressure to hurt, and yet it's agonizing in its deliberate, delightful torture.
Moving cat-graceful, he crawls up the bed to sit on my chest, pinning my wrists to the bed above my head with his hands. It would be a futile action if I wanted to push the dominant role, but I allow him this, wanting this to be a night of equal pleasures. Purring, eyes glowing, he asks me again what I'll give him if he allows this. Tease. Terrible, wonderful tease.
Suddenly he's looking me in the eyes. There's an intensity there the likes of which I've never seen before in all my eons. He forms his words carefully and deliberately, gaze unwavering and serious, hard enough to cut through me with their ice.
“Why? Why do you love me?”
The answer pours forth from me like an eruption. His hair, his eyes, his exquisite face. The flowing sculpture-like lines of his body. A Greek statue too fine for any museum.
His eyes change, now, and I can't read them. Was this the answer he wanted? The last one he wanted, needed to hear? Did he need more? Was that it? Did he want to know if I loved him for more than his flesh shell?
His eyes are surprised when I liken him to a seraph. Despite his attempts at depravity, there's an innocence that hangs on him like a shroud of silken feathers. His turning didn't dispel all of his soul, as it would have any other, anyone not like him. Indeed, he would have made a powerful ally for the other side had he not been tempted and changed. We don't recruit those fated as saints very often.
I tell him the truth. Those shreds of humanity and purity that remain attract me more than his beauty. And as I babble on, I realize it isn't even the temptation of being able to taint those bits, but that he's a perfect balance of it. He will never be an angel, but neither will he, can he be a pure demon. He's found that balance of savagery and civility that separates him from the human animal and the Primordials. He is what he is; a complex simplicity. Balance in all her terrible beauty.
He stares at me like I'm mad, not understanding half of what I'm chattering about by the expression on his face. I do the only thing I can think of. I grab his shoulders and pull him down, locking my mouth onto his. I bite and suck at his lips, trying to affirm that what I love is him, every aspect, physicalntalntal, and spiritual, wholly and equally. I think he begins to understand…
When I let him go, he slowly sits up. There's a wonderful light in his eyes, and I know it's my imagination, but I could swear I saw three pairs of wings trembling, arcing from his back. He sighs, laughs a little to himself.
“All these years looking for someone who'd really appreciate me, and it turns out he's bloody Belial.”
“Are you disappointed…?”
“No… No, not at all. It's nice to be the one being catered to for a change. No more doormat days.”
His shoulder in my grip is trembling as he hovers on his knees above my erection, but my hand is there only to steady him, not to act with force. He takes in a reflexive if unneeded shuddering breath as he slowly lowers himself onto my length. His hands are planted firmly on my broad stomach, and I can see his arms shaking. It's painfully obvious to me that this act has rarely if ever been a pleasurable one for him. If I succeed in nothing else this night, I will change that fact for him.
He sits very still for a moment, eyes tightly closed, getting used to the feeling of leshlesh inside his. He's far warmer than I thought he'd be, much less tighter. I have to be very careful to not tear him, to remain in control of myself at all times. His eyes finally open, and he looks at me with fearful anticipation and gives a tentative go-ahead.
My hips begin to rise and fall in a slow, rhythmic pace. I get an immediate response from my pale Adonis, feeling his fingers press deep into my stomach. He gasps, eyes closed, head tilted back slightly. I run my hands up and down his thighs, partially supporting his weight as he counters my movement.
I whisper encouragement and endearments to him, but he seems to concentrate only on the physical aspect, not the emotional. His lips are a tight line, but I can tell he's enjoying it. Because he can take charge. And I let him. I allow him to set the pace, now faster, now slower; the length of the sts. s.
One hand leaves his thigh and encircles his rigid shaft. He inhales sharply, eyes still squeezed shut as I begin to caress and massage his flesh. It becomes a contest to see which of us can hold out the longest. Minutes pass, perhaps hours. It ends in a tie. We trigger each other's climax; a celebration of pyrotechnics in our minds. I catch him as he collapses, exhausted, into a deep sleep. I cradle him to my chest, unfurling one hidden wing to shelter his slender form, and slip into that darkness myself.
I wake him quite by accident as I stretch and yawn after several hours rest. I've slipped out of my human guise while sleeping, but he doesn't seem fearful of me anymore. Instead he moves closer, obviously still groggy, eyes going to the arching form of my scaled wings.
“…Wish I had wings… always wanted to fly…” he rests his face against my left breast and dozes again. A wish for wings that work. How like my fallen angel. Perhaps I'll grant this wish for him after I deal with those opposing him, if I can be sure he won't be too reckless with them. Quite the daredevil, he. Until then, I think as I run my fingertips over his smooth back, feeling him relax under my touch, he'll just have to make due with mine. I'd carry him to the Holy Gates, to my own destruction, if he asked me to, no regrets. I've no need of Eden; Paradise is already in my embrace.