Death's Angel
Part One: A Fire Inside
by Kagemihari
I always told myself as I breezed through life, unhindered, that one day, someday, there would be someone who
would reach me, capture me, make me care again. When I met you I knew, if
anyone could make me care, it was you. I know if anyone could have touched the
heart I've lost and buried, it's you.
But it's too late.
It's been too long, and I can't. I don't. I learned a long time ago not to let any attachments or
emotions go deeper than the capricious whim, the heat of the moment. Everybody
leaves. I am Shinigami -- everybody dies. Except me.
I've kept all my emotions and reactions surface thin, and shallow, for so long; there's nothing left
underneath. I've kept from truly caring about anyone, for so long, that I no
longer can, even if I wanted to.
Even for you -- my gorgeous angel, with those damn 'fuck me' eyes.
I never thought the Perfect Soldier could fall so hard, so fast. I thought you were safe, that we both knew
this imitation of a relationship was only temporary. A release of mutual
tension. I never dreamed your emotionless surface hid such deep feeling
beneath.
I don't have any feelings to return. I wish I did, almost. But all I can feel is a vague regret that I
didn't know how you misunderstood what I offered. Not that I would have done
any differently if I had known, I don't think. You were there, so fucking hot,
and you wanted me -- and I wanted you, but more than that, I needed someone,
anyone, so badly.
Someone to own, to dominate, to control, someone to always be there when I am coldest and most in need of
heat and passion. Sometimes I wonder, briefly, why you let me do this. I know I
couldn't hurt your body unless you let me, so you must like it rough. You must
get some kind of sick enjoyment out of being bruised, bloodied, used. Like I
care.
It is a nice side benefit that you have a trim, firm body, that smooth golden skin and a perfectly tight
and delectable ass. That you have the face of angel and deep blue eyes that
shimmer and change with your emotions like the depths of the sea, and they
spark blue fire when you get fierce. It's nice that your soft adorably messy
hair is just the right length for twisting my fingers in as the wet heat of
your mouth surrounds me.
Such a clever mouth. You can kiss like the devil himself -- wait, that's me. You kiss like an angel. When you
kiss me it's like you're burning me alive, your mouth and tongue and the touch
of your searching hands, lightly teasing or searingly hard on my arms, my back,
wrapped in my hair, cupping my ass. You kiss me and I think I'm going to go up
in flames and I can't think or breathe, silver lightning flashes behind my
eyes, leaving me blind.... oh god it's so good. Like making love to fire, and I
just melt into you and forget everything, taking brutal possession of your
mouth and returning your touches with my own fierce grip.
You're so hot I get hard just looking at you, and you are mine, all mine. I don't even have to make sure of
that, you're a willing slave. I try not to sneer when you say you're in love
with me. How convenient.
How strange to find, beneath your surface ice, a core of heat and fire. How odd, that it is I who am the
most cold and dead inside.
I can see in your eyes that you don't understand; the question asking, Why?
I can't be what you want from me. I suppose I should be sorry. Yes. It's not worth much, I don't feel it, but
you could say I'm sorry.
Somehow though I can't even muster up enough regret to want to care – it's all so far away. So distant; I
see your hurt, and pain, and doubt, and I should feel something— but I don't. I
note, clinically, the signs of your emotion, the hurt I've caused, the way your
soul bleeds in your eyes. Such a pity. I've damaged you. How sad.
And I smile at you, a cheery, bright, empty smile, the way I always do, and take what you give me, as if I
cared. Because I need it, I crave it, that physical warmth and release. It's a
way I can tell I'm still alive, the only way I can still feel, even for a
little while.
You know that, and I know that's why you stay, giving me the only thing I can receive when you know I'm
giving nothing back. Not capable of giving anything back, or caring that I
don't. You smile back at me, when we are alone; I know I'm the only one who
ever sees that smile. God, what a smile. Half the time it makes me want to jump
your bones, the other half I just want to hit you, bruise it until you wise up.
I don't care, do you get that? Your eyes are so sad, but your smile is warm,
teasing, alluring, even loving. You care that much, to love me even when it
costs you.
I don't know what to do with love like that. It means nothing to me, and if I had a response to it, it would
be to smirk at your foolish emotion. I don't care that you feel it, and I can't
return it or even pretend to return it. So I do nothing, say nothing. Just let
you.
I know it hurts you, but you say nothing, either, giving me your love and your heart and your body with ever
patient devotion, asking nothing in return. You know what I need, you know if I
don't get it from you, I will just look for it somewhere else. You know that sometimes
I do that, anyway. You have decided to pay the price of unrequited love, if by
it you can give me any means of easing the horror, any comfort in this hellish
life.
I see, with a kind of distant bemusement, the way it makes you bleed inside, I see the silent tears you
sometimes allow to run down your face at night. I could almost find it amusing
that it's you, not me, who ended up hurting here. I should care, but I don't, I
can't. I'm the god of death. Gods don't fall in love. Sorry.
You're beautiful though, and I smile at you, appreciating the sight of you as an artist might appreciate a
fine painting. Yes, I like looking at you, and I like the way you make me feel,
if only for a brief instant. If only for a moment. A flash of white hot fire.
Such a momentary, fleeting touch of emotion, no deeper than the surface of my
heart; it vanishes like a breath of air as soon as you are no longer in my
immediate sight.
I can't give you what you want. I can't give you the emotion, the devotion that you've given me. I don't
run that deep anymore. If I could, I might feel sorry, I might wish terribly
that I did. As it is, I have merely a faint regret that you've gained dark
smudges under your eyes, and they have a deep sadness behind them now that
never quite goes away, dimming slightly the brightness that they once had. It
mars the perfection of loveliness you have been.
I shouldn't let you do this. Shouldn't let you keep giving, getting nothing in return but empty gestures.
The mask of a brilliant smile, and nothing underneath. But I let you, because I
need it. I want it. I want you. You're fierce and hot and so alive, everything
I'm not. You're fucking gorgeous, and I want you so bad. I want to own you,
take you, mark you, use you. How nice of you to let me. I do appreciate it, I
assure you.
Sometimes I'm a selfish bastard.
Oh, I would let you leave, if you ever gave up and went. I can find someone else to make a pretty picture in
my bed, someone else with enough fire to burn away my chill for those few
moments of whiteout, soaring blankness and bliss. But why should I leave you
when you're perfectly willing to stay and keep giving? I don't have to say or
do or be anything in return, just take what I want and go on my way. I know
you'll always be there and I don't have to do a thing to keep you. I'm selfish
like that. I wouldn't leave you, just for your own good, just because it isn't
right to keep taking when you want more than I can give you.
It isn't right. Who cares what's right? Everything is wrong in this fucking war. You're just another
casualty, too bad. You aren't dead yet, and I'm not killing you. Just... using
you. How degrading for you, but I can't call you a whore. You pointed that out
to me once. You can't be a whore if you never get paid, never get anything out
of it. I shrug with a careless smile. Like I would pay you when I can get you
for free.
Besides, I think it would kill you if I left. I'm shallow and I don't love you, but somehow that doesn't
seem to matter to you. That I let you love me is all you are asking for,
because you do love me. You can't help it, it seems. But if I ever refused to
let you, refused you the expression of that misplaced devotion, I think it
would crush you completely.
You don't understand it, the need you have to give everything for me. To be there for me when I am never
there for you. I don't understand it either, and if I ever stopped to consider
it, I would be puzzled, even confused, but I don't ever think about it much. I
don't think about you much at all, when you aren't there. I see in your eyes,
the confusion, the betrayal; you don't know why you can't stop loving me.
I don't know, either, but I don't care. I'm just grateful that the fire inside you roars loud enough to
silence my ghosts. You never asked me; still, I know you know. That the warmth
of your silence is loud enough to chase away my nightmares. That your fierce
heat is enough to make me forget, for a while, the cold that creeps numbly
around my heart. That I can lose myself in you, for just a brief space in time,
and forget all the agony and bleakness and hopeless dread.
I'm using you, using your love to ease my despair and block out the pain of my existence. Not life, but I
exist. I don't care though. I don't care that I'm using you, and it's so unfair,
so unjust, so cruel. I just.... don't care.
I can't feel anything anymore. Even for you. Sorry.
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