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A Disturbance of Shadows: The Demon and the Cherub	By : sothis Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1572 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Disturbance of Shadows: The Demon and the Cherub
- 1
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Notes: I started this piece several years ago and has been sitting on my hard drive and random diskettes forever. It bubbled up again the other day and I took the initiative to finish it. Not sure how I feel about it. There may be a 'sequel' in the works sometime in the not too distant future.

A Disturbance of Shadows

(The Demon and the Cherub)

~*~*~

I love little pussy,

His coat is so warm,

And if I don’t hurt him,

He’ll do me no harm.

So I’ll not pull his tail,

Nor drive him away,

But pussy and I,

Very gently will play.

~*~*~

The Demon

Heaven is weeping tonight.

The tears have fallen on his sleeping face, but he does not wake.

Such a pretty kitten he is. Not the pick of the litter, no, but there is something about him. An innocence that hasn’t been destroyed by death, veiled by blood; a killer he is, yes, but still as soft and golden as any cherubim.   Yes. That’s what he is, a cherub—it is much more fitting to him than those cat names that Kritiker has bestowed on their team.

He is soft to the touch, warm and pliable in my arms. I do like the way he feels curled on my lap, cradled against me, head on my shoulder. I can taste him on the air as I let the tip of my tongue test the night’s heaviness: rain and mud, the faint grey choking flavor of smoke, and beneath it all the taste of ginger,
sharp, raw.

Crawford’s gaze has found me again; through the haze across the rear view mirror he watches with narrowed eyes. He is not fond of my playing with the catches. He says he’d much rather things be done with a modicum of traditionalism, but he didn’t say anything when Schuldig voiced the idea, nor when I appeared amidst
the rubble, slipping through the shadows and the rain holding the cherub in my arms. He said nothing, so he is consenting to let me play.

I look down at the sleeping face again. He had been caught in the blinding downpour, lost to his comrades, wounded, limping. Yet still, was so lovely to look at, with soot marring the pale curve of his cheek, and pain clotting behind his blue eyes.

God’s forsaken cherub.

Does He weep to know you’ve fallen into my arms?

He will.

Together, we will make Him cry. Together, create such a vision of blood and flesh as to make the highest and coldest of Beings collapse into tears of pain, or pleasure, or envy. They are all harmful to Him in this way, you see. The pain of having His beautiful child at my mercy; the envy He feels at seeing you with

me

, reveling in

my

embrace, will cut so deep.

Tonight, He will hurt. Tonight, He will bleed.

*    *    *

He is waking now, slowly.

Do You see him?

Lying on my bed, a fitting sacrifice. Face sweet and innocent in the light of the burning candles. The manacles on his wrists stark and cold against his skin.

You let him go.

And he fell, with no one around to catch him. No one but me.

These are my arms he fell into.

Not Yours.

Mine

.

His eyes open and I see him blinking into the dimness. Surely he was not expecting to wake where he has, swathed in candlelight and incense, lying on a red counterpane, cradled in feather pillows. The scent of apprehension clings to him, underplayed with fear. The emotions drip
from his pores and their flavour on the air is so thick, so strong, and sharp as the blade.

He doesn’t see me slip through the flickering shadows, doesn’t see me until I stand beside the bed staring down at him, and then his eyes grow and the glassy sheen over them shatters, spills onto his skin. His mouth is open, showing insides that are soft and wet and darkly red; the breaths he takes are too fast, rushing out in short, uneven pants.
I sit on the bed’s edge and lean closer to him, trail my fingers down the paleness of his cheek, caress the dark soot ingrained in his flesh. His skin is smooth beneath my fingertips.

“Cherub, I’ve no wish to harm you.”

My voice creaks like the hinge of that old church door from years ago, and he winces as I whisper to him, as I lean near him. I can see myself in the mirror of his eyes. A pale wraith, a cold killer, a madman, a scarred demon…no doubt these are the things he himself sees.

He trembles beneath my hand that has dropped to stroke his jaw, his neck, and then the soft flesh beneath his shirt. He curls in on himself, turns on his side as far as he can before being caught by the weight and limit of his bonds.

“Kitty doesn’t like having his belly rubbed?” Strained silences from him, but my ears detect the slightest cry, trembling and faint in the back of his throat.

“No… Then, how about this?”

I stroke his back, watch him shiver as I raise the protective cloth of his shirt and trail one finger down the soft skin. I feel the ridges of his spine, the hard pearls beneath the golden-pale flesh, each pulled taught on their strand, ready to snap and scatter in one sudden spasm.



The Cherub

When Omi wakes, his first instinct is to call out to the others, but breath catches in his throat, stopping him short of names. A choking cough strikes him but he manages to pull in a much needed clean breath through a drug induced constriction of throat and airways.

He is lying on something warm and soft; it’s silky beneath his legs. His arms…are bound above his head, he can feel the weight around his wrists, the soft clink of chain as he gently flexes his back and shoulder muscles and feels the familiar shift of a mattress beneath him.

This isn’t his bed.

Nor his room.

He moves his legs, realizes his shoes are missing. Taken? It doesn’t matter, they had been melting from heat, anyway.

He turns his head and the world swims out of focus before returning brighter and a little sharper than before, and he allows himself to sink into the softness of the bed as he tries to gather the moments just after he’d given the order to abort. The information is fragmented; it comes through in short spurts of static laced pictures.

He had heard walls cracking and crashing down, had felt the rain on his face, the heat of the falling embers, the sodden nail ridden boards, the pain in his right leg… He’d turned at some point, trying to track the others; radio contact had been disabled some time before, and his headset lay useless beneath the rubble. There…he’d seen…a shadow flitting
through the firelight and rain, moving toward him. He’d caught the faintest scent—out of place in the smoking ruins of the building—there was a single drop of brightness, pain, voices calling him somewhere in the dark, and then…nothing. The static had overcome him.

Omi shakes his head to clear it of the dark and static. There was someone near when he woke, someone who still is moving just beyond the edges of his sight. The white pillars of candles keep most of the room in shifting shadow, and the haze of incense does nothing to help his night vision, but…it has to be…from the
warehouse. He’d smelt this scent beneath the rain.

Shifting on the bed, he tries to reach for the darts kept close to his hear, never mind that they are no longer there, that he knows they aren’t, and that he couldn’t reach them even if they were. A pinching of metal against his soft wrist skin stops his hands short and he sends a look of reprimand to the manacles and their chains that are attached to the wall
behind the bed.

There is a disturbance of shadows and his gaze falls from his bonds, focuses instead on the wan, pale figure moving into view. Amber light spills from the man’s visible eye, the pupil is drowning in gold, elongated like a cat’s, making Omi wonder if his vision isn’t damaged somehow…but…the eye watches him too closely for that to be.
His hair is a pale halo in the dark and his numerous scars lay smooth and stark against his skin.

The man—his name Omi barely recalls, cannot get his mental tongue around—settles on the bed and leans close to him. Omi knows his mouth is hanging half open like some captured fish. He gasps and gapes and still can’t draw enough air through his tight throat. And then comes the touch; the man’s hands, so strangely cool, are smooth despite the seemed ridges of skin decorating them. He brushes fingers across Omi’s cheek and whispers.

His voice is strange, low and faint, as though he doesn’t use it much. It touches Omi’s skin and clings to his face as sticky as spider’s silk. Omi winces, draws back as though trying to disappear into the pillows.

“Kitty doesn’t like having his belly rubbed?” The voice is now an intimate whisper. Omi clenches his teeth against a sudden and unexpected whimper that is tickling the back of his throat, but a little sound comes out anyway.

Another question.

The touch again, as disarmingly gentle as it was before, trailing down the back of his neck. Omi feels his shirt lifted and squirms as a single finger traces the line of his backbone, following it carefully down the length of his torso, tracing each knob, until bone disappears along with his flesh into the waistband of his shorts.

This is not happening…

A strand breaks, pearls scatter.

Omi sucks in air between his teeth; he’s got the name now—Demon—

Farfarello.

The Demon

The cherub gasps, shudders when he feels my hand beneath his clothes, slipping under his armor. He expected me to stop at that barrier of cloth no doubt. But, how could I when what I’m feeling is so sweet and pure and divinely beautiful? How can I stop when I know He is
watching and realizing there is no escape for His fallen one from the demon He created with careless minds and faulted flesh?

This little one feels good in my hand, the curve of his ass smooth and warm against my skin. I lie on my side next to him, slide my other hand beneath the rough-hewn fabric of his shorts, cup my palms against him and knead the smooth flesh. He gives another cry, high and strained—cut short…

I know well the sounds of cries cut off by the clench of teeth on flesh.

I kiss the taught muscle at the base of his neck, and I am so very gentle, and then arch my body to look over his shoulder. His eyes are shut tight and I see the white tips of teeth buried in the flesh of his lower lip. There are swirls of red staining their ridges.

I take my hands off him then, grasp his shoulder and roll him onto his back. The muscles in his eyelids flinch, tremble, lock tighter, but he’s removed his teeth from his lip and I take advantage of the moment to lave my tongue along the red mouth.

His breathing quickens as I tongue the silky lids of his eyes and lick across the soot marred cheek, cleaning the dirt and debris of the night from his skin. Black soot, salt, ginger. Such an interesting mélange of flavours, but the sweetest comes from inside.

There’s a sheath on my arm and I pull the blade from it slowly, the sound of metal grazing the leather louder than a whisper in the quiet room.

The shirt he wears is in the way, nothing more than a nuisance. I start from the collar, slide the blade down, part the colored threads while leaving the skin beneath untouched. I split the seams on the arms and peel the cloth away, throw it to the floor.

I stop then, and wait.

Wait for his eyes to open.

I want to see the blue.



After a few moments they do and they are wide and innocent, fearful and wondering as he sees me holding the knife pressed to my lips. There is an unspoken question on his tongue; I know what it is without him voicing it.

You see, I am patient cherub. Your flesh is my altar and I will worship you.

I stroke the blade with my tongue, watch the candlelight glint off the edge of it before I lower it to his skin.

I slide the knife along his throat, over the pulse—gently, gently, tip barely caressing the skin. I could press in, here, now…but it would end too quickly. No… Once over his chest, over the beat of his heart I press down, watch the silver tip dip into him and the swell of red beads bubbling up in the seam.
I’ve always prided myself on my work, the deftness of my touch, the glide of my knife. I’ve yet to disappoint. The cut is deep enough to bleed well, shallow enough to heal without a scar. I feel the smile on my lips as I lean forward to lap at the flow.

“No, no, no.” It’s chanted like a mantra under his breath. “This is not happening.”

Such sweet noises he makes.

Don’t worry little one, tonight I intend to take you to the edge of heaven, allow Him to see you wallowing in rapture, to see what no longer belongs to his dominion. I’ve made you mine, cherub, took you with that first cut, as I will take you again.

Lower now, the knife poised over the soft belly flesh, sliding with ease into him, bringing up the blood. He shudders as I take the blade away and replace the cool metal with the heat of my tongue. I lap at the indentation of his navel, snake my tongue over the fine gold hairs decorating his skin.

His shorts are in my way, halting my procession. I slip the knife between my lips, grasp it between tongue and teeth, while my fingers glide over the shuddering cherub, to the gold barriers that keep him locked away form my eyes, my touch.

“NO!”

Such force. He’s found his voice again.

I pause momentarily.

I had not expected such venom from the little one. He has risen as far as his bonds will allow.   His eyes are locked on me, still water, gold strands hanging into them. I meet the blue gaze with my own, watch as he flinches but doesn’t dare look away.

How strange we must appear to anyone who might see us from another objective. I, kneeling between his legs, devotee—besotted worshipper—tongue flicking against the blade in my mouth, imagining it were his smooth flesh. And him, chains pulled taught, bonds rubbing raw his wrists, nearly prostrate, head raised just
enough to watch me. Trying so hard to appear in control.

Sweet cherub.

I undo the first clasp and he falls to the bed again, twisting, turning, struggling to push me away with his feet, to curl in on himself, but I am quicker and soon he lies naked and golden beneath me, smooth skin glistening in the light of the candles.

I touch him then, reverently brush the gold fleece between his legs, watch as his cock twitches against the paleness of his thigh. I move up, lean over him, take the time to explore the intriguing swirls of his ear with my tongue while my hand is busy with the blade in lower regions. The metal caresses one thigh, then the
other, and the cherub cries softly.

“…a jewel placed by God in the palm of the devil.”

He starts violently when I speak and I move to the half parted mouth and slide my tongue into the wet darkness. His spit is bitter sweet; he tastes of panic and fear and…arousal. His lips are smooth against mine, tongue a living ribbon of hot velvet, fleeing from my intrusion, but I only delve deeper into his mouth,
trace the soft wet cheeks and the firm roof. I stroke his tongue with my own, so gently, coaxing it forward like a small frightened animal until I can suck and bring him into my own mouth.

He jumps at his intrusion and pulls away. I let him, but not before catching his bottom lip between my teeth and sucking the clotted wound.

Stroking my hands down his body, I come to the junction of his thighs, the small cuts on his paleness still weep and stain my fingers faintly red, and in the center of the soft golden hair, he has grown hard.

Not so very innocent after all, are you cherub? Not so resistant.

Schuldig was right.



I wrap my fingers around his cock, glide the pads of over the silken skin, brush my thumb over the tip of him. The cherub hides a moan deep in his throat and I smile. Continuing the strokes I bring the metal of the blade against him, draw it quickly up along one side of his
erection and then the other, massaging the tip of him all the while.

Such pure sounds are his cries, like cathedral bells ringing on a cold winter morning. There is wetness on his cheeks now. Clean, glistening tears.

“He is careless, the lying Lord,” I say as I lean over him, blowing air along his cock, watching it twitch, “to let you slip between His fingers.” I flick my tongue out, damped the tip of him even more, before meeting those blue eyes so shaken. “I am not careless. You are sweet to me, cherub,” I say before wrapping my lips around him.

The Cherub

This can’t be happening.

Kami-sama.

It shouldn’t be like this—it shouldn’t feel like this.

His only experience has been in the privacy of his bedroom, cultivating the smoothness of his own spit, the warmth of his own hand, the private imagery in his mind. But, he knows that it shouldn’t feel like this—that he shouldn’t be poised on this precipice—ready to fall.

Omi presses his face against his arm, biting into his own flesh to keep from crying out again. The skin there is salty with a sweat he hasn’t realized he’s broken. He tries to ignore the actions being performed on him—the way that tongue flicks over the tip of him before scouring the cuts along the sides—tries to
ignore it, and fails. He can already feel that familiar pressure building at the base of his spine try as he might to ignore it, to set it aside. He’s never been good at holding back.

He can’t be doing this. He can’t allow this. It shouldn’t happen. Not with this man, not bound up like some animal—he feels the manacles cut into his wrists, sending a sizzle of half pleasuring pain through his arms, down his spine, to mingle in the very place where all
that pressure resides.

And he recalls thoughts of rope or wire, razors or blades, but those were only dreams he’d had, fancies he’d entertained in a brief moment. They mean nothing in the waking world—nothing in his proper life. He can’t.



He shouldn’t.

But he does.

I am not so rough with him, not as much as I could be, as I would like to be. As much as he might want me to be…

Pushing his legs back to give a better angle, I thrust into him smoothly, surely, in just the right way as to sweep over that madly sensitive place that so many of my gender are purposefully unaware of.

The opening rhyme is from Mother Goose.
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A Disturbance of Shadows: The Demon and the Cherub