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The room breathed like an awakened beast, the air thick and sweet as spoiled wine. Raphael was laid open beneath her like a book, from his parted legs to his spread ribs, between which grace shimmered and shifted. The large drops of sweat on his temples were like dew on lily petals—crystalline, transparent, fresh and sweet even to look at—while his face, usually illuminated by a gentle sorrow, was now twisted in an unfamiliar, frightening ecstasy. Through his half-open lips, short, pained moans burst forth incessantly—not born of pain, but from the feeling overwhelming him, too vast to be contained within their two bodies.
This was his first time—not just with a woman, but with himself, with this new, unfamiliar part of him that strained to break free through the sensitive heaviness in his lower abdomen.
And there was plenty to strain, Audrey thought, moving slowly atop him. The Creator, for some reason, had decided that another of Raphael's gifts would be a cock so large and weighty that Audrey had had to squeeze out half a tube of lubricant just to take him inside her. Even now, caressing and squeezing him with soft, slow, undulating movements of her hips, she felt like a brave tamer of angelic obelisks.
This was a consecration. She was accepting Raphael not just with her body, but with her soul: all his fragility, all his fear of becoming a work of art that no one would ever see. And it was at this point of their fusion, where Raphael barely breathed and trembled, and Audrey was covered in a fine sweat from the strain, that David appeared.
His fingers, warm and tender, embraced her breasts, took them into his palms, tracing her nipples with his thumbs; all of it unhurried, almost reverent. Audrey's breathing quickened, growing wet; she knew what David was leading to, but he wasn't hiding his intentions. He pressed his lips to her neck, nipping lightly with his teeth—just enough to make Audrey jerk against Raphael, to make her moan, to make them both moan. But David didn't rush; he knew who was the true master of her pleasure. His fingers didn't compel, they guided; they slid lower, to the very epicenter of her pulse and her heavy, voluptuous union with Raphael; to where, between the folds of her vulva, her desire and his ecstasy were hidden.
"Please," Audrey pleaded, not knowing what she wanted more—for him not to do this to her, not to make her come, knowing how agonizing this orgasm promised to be, or for him to help her experience this wondrous, almost cosmic supernova explosion between her and Raphael.
"Don't be afraid," David kissed her behind the ear, settling on his heels behind her, so his erecrion lightly brushed against her buttocks. His fingers dug into her vulva proprietorially, for now tracing light circles around her clitoris, but even this deceptive lightness made her moan and arch her back; made Raphael moan, clutch the sheets, and offer his hips to her.
David was demonically cruel. He took Audrey under her breast, squeezed her nipple between his fingers—Raphael jerked upright, pressing his lips to her nipple as if afraid to miss even a moment—and pinched her clitoris between his fingertips, rubbing it like a tiny pearl. At this, Audrey first gasped for air, and then—screamed.
It seemed to her that she was disintegrating into atoms. This wasn't just an orgasm, it was annihilation: her walls tried to clench around Raphael's majestic phallus, akin to a papal column, but already stretched to their limit, they could only shudder meaninglessly and voluptuously, leaving her suspended between David, who held her by the buttocks, and Raphael, who cupped her breasts in his palms. David moved her, continued this torture, and Raphael couldn't even cry out—his eyes rolled back, his palms squeezed her breasts so hard it was almost painful, but that soon ceased to matter; light flooded Audrey's consciousness. At that same moment, she felt Raphael convulse, and felt, rather than heard, his moan, a moan of pain and pleasure; soundless, broken, weak.
"My God," Audrey exhaled. She had feared in vain—this was probably the most powerful orgasm of her life. The room fell quiet, very quiet: she could only hear the heavy breathing, hers and Raphael's, and David's barely audible inhale as he buried his face in her hair.
Audrey leaned over Raphael, exploring his beautiful, tear-streaked face with her eyes and fingers. He was crying, swallowing his tears, and his eyes reflected Infinity.
"Why is it so beautiful?" he whispered. Audrey leaned down and touched her lips to Raphael's—it was a kiss of blessing, a kiss of forgiveness and absolution for all sins.
When Audrey straightened up, still trembling slightly, David leaned over Raphael and pressed his fiery lips to his, bitten and bloodless. Audrey couldn't resist and pressed her lips to David's shoulder, to his shoulder blade from which an invisible black wing grew.
David wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her to him. He lowered his hand and dipped his fingers into her vulva, coating them in her juices and Raphael's seed; the fluid shimmered and gleamed in his hand like liquid mother-of-pearl. He brought his fingers to his mouth, not taking his dark, pagan eyes off Audrey, and licked them, tasting the salt and honey of their union. When he kissed Audrey again—greedily, heatedly—his mouth still held their shared taste, the bittersweet flavor of newlyborn faith.
When David touched her between her legs again, as if drawn by an invisible yet powerful magnet, the world narrowed to a point of flame at her core, to the tremor of her skin where he touched her. David's hands—strong, confident—lifted her, took her off Raphael, whose breath was still a hot memory on her lips, and now she floated, moved through space, until her hips straddled him, and her back met an unfamiliar, solid chest.
Cool fingers authoritatively parted her buttocks, and she felt him not so much through touch as through the weight of his presence. The breath by her ear was hot, measured, familiar. It was Cassiel, and he was silent—he was always silent when he took her like this, from behind, and Audrey froze, enchanted by the skillful touches, by the calm way he lubricated her anus, preparing her for the continuation of pleasure.
But she didn't have too much time to think or prepare: David's member, dark, uncircumcised, with a drop of cloudy moisture at the tip, was already erect beneath her, and David pressed his palm gently against her stomach, compelling her to sink down onto him and feel the familiar shape parting her still wet, still pulsing walls, throbbing from recent pleasure. Simultaneously, she felt a methodical pressure from behind and flinched from fright, from surprise, but David drew her to him, stroking her back and thighs.
"Hush, my love," David whispered tenderly. "Hush. There's enough of you for all of us. Just relax. Let us in."
These weren't words of comfort, but a statement of fact—Audrey was enough for everyone. She never had to choose and suffer over choices: all the warriors of Astrea desired her body and were ready to please her, and she, in turn, was ready to accept them inside her, without sacrificing a single pleasure. Breathing in ragged, excited gasps, Audrey submitted, letting the tension leave her—and for a moment, forgot how to breathe.
They entered her almost simultaneously. Not as invaders, but as two notes of a mighty, resonating chord, occupying the space within her, depriving her of peace. Her womb became their temple, a concert hall filled by two different, yet intertwining rhythms. There was no pain, no shame—only all-consuming fullness. The sensation that every inner void she hadn't even been aware of was filled, every desire sated, her hunger, her thirst, her loneliness were banished by this fiery presence of two demons, stretching and consuming her body.
Her individuality dissolved, her thoughts, those restless, scurrying ants, scattered and fell silent. Nothing remained but the pure sensation of being, as if she were a vessel containing oceans. Two rhythms moved within her, one—rhythmic and commanding, the other—deceptively gentle, full of sensuality, and this double wave carried her beyond herself. This time Audrey didn't scream, she resonated, like a taut string, and in her eyes flashed not sparks, but whole galaxies, being born in the crucible of this perfect, silent unity.
"More," she whispered, barely audible. But Cassiel at her ear and David at her lips heard. And they obeyed their little mistress.
Downstairs, a tomblike silence reigned, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Malek stood by the fire: for a while he silently watched the flames devour the crackling wood, then pulled paper and a box from his pocket. He had all the time in the world, and a couple of minutes to relax didn't count. He licked the paper before rolling it and pressing the joint shut with his finger, stuffing the cellulose sausage with oblivion. The moment his tongue ran along the edge, he met Mikael's gaze.
"Am I not allowed?" Malek asked, smiling only with his eyes. Mikael said nothing. He folded his arms across his chest, approached, and also began to watch the fire.
Shielding the joint from the non-existent wind—a human habit, nonetheless—Malek lit it. He blew the first couple of drags into the air, and only rolled the third around in his mouth, inhaled deeply, and held it in his lungs, idly examining Mikael. Mikael shifted his weight from one foot to the other; even this awkward gesture became graceful in his execution. He was probably uncomfortable, but he was too stubborn to say anything.
Malek blew a stream of smoke towards the archangel. It twisted in the air, a greyish serpent swimming through the firelight. His gaze, lazy and all-seeing, slid across the deserted hall, picking out details from the semi-darkness—a forgotten glass with a lipstick stain, a glint of silver on the wall, dust on the velvet portiere. Something was missing here. Perhaps four bodies currently indulging in sin in her bedroom?
"Where is everyone?" Malek asked, taking another drag. Mikael didn't answer immediately. He stared for a long time at the space above Malek's shoulder.
"Upstairs," he finally exhaled, and his lips compressed into a thin, stubborn line. Malek turned his head, studying his profile in the flickering firelight. The electric light in the living room was off, but Mikael wasn't in a hurry to fix it. Neither was Malek.
"You don't approve?" he asked, distractedly touching his upper lip with a fingernail.
"What do you think?" Mikael turned to him sharply, and a glint flashed in his eyes—not of anger, but of something deeper. Ah, old wounds, eternal contradictions. It had been easier for Audrey—she had resisted for a long time, but self-acceptance had become so… natural for her. Mikael could be anything, but naturalness, it seemed, was beyond his strength.
"I think a lot, in general," Malek answered after a pause. With a slow, almost ceremonial gesture, he tucked a stray white lock behind Mikael's ear. He loved the expression that appeared in Mikael's eyes at that moment—a cornered wolf? A sacrificial lamb?
Before Mikael could recover, Malek brought the joint to his lips, still damp from his saliva. Mikael froze; Malek thought he could hear the very creaking of his being, resisting the small temptation; the muscles in his cheeks even twitched, as if seized by a sudden spasm. But then, with a barely noticeable effort, he surrendered. His lips closed around the cigarette, and he took a short, sharp drag, carefully suppressing a cough.
Malek waited for Mikael to take a proper drag, though 'proper' didn't really happen—smoke came out of his mouth, his nose. Malek took the joint back, took a drag himself, not looking away. Then his hand came to rest on the back of Mikael's head. He pulled him closer, overcoming a slight, perfunctory resistance, and breathed the smoke into his half-open lips.
"See? It's not so hard," Malek whispered into his mouth. His lips slid from the corner of Mikael's mouth down, along his jawline, then up, to the sensitive skin below his earlobe. Mikael shuddered, and his entire body stiffened for a moment, then became soft and pliable, like fruit jelly. Years of abstinence, self-control, icy solitude—how quickly he gave in to a single touch, Malek thought, almost tenderly.
Oh, he felt it, he felt that storm beneath the skin, he was its architect. Malek pressed Mikael against the mantelpiece: cold marble bit into his back, the heat from the fireplace scorched him from behind, the heat from Malek's body seared him from the front. When Malek's lips sank into his neck, as if striving to drink his pulse, Mikael let out a choked sound, something between a moan and a sob. His hands, usually authoritatively clasped behind his back or on his chest, fell helplessly onto Malek's shoulders, not daring to embrace nor to push away.
When Malek pressed against him with his hips and felt a firmness answering his own, he couldn't suppress a low, predatory chuckle. Mikael threw his head back, closed his eyes, as if afraid to see his own fall. He was aroused, obedient, laid open like a book finally being read after years of gathering dust on the upper library shelves.
Malek pulled away from his neck. His breathing was hot and uneven.
"Say 'stop', and I'll stop," he said with almost sadistic pleasure.
Mikael dug his fingers into the lapels of Malek's jacket, silently pulling him closer. His silence was more eloquent than any consent, the silence of an icy archangel with burning cheeks and shame in his eyes.
Malek's hand, which had been caressing him through the fabric of his trousers, slid lower, to his waistband. He quickly found the belt buckle, quickly got rid of the belt. Then—the zipper, a deafeningly sharp sound in the deathly silence of the hall. Warm air touched his skin, but only for a moment; it was quickly replaced by the hot touch of a palm. Mikael lay in Malek's hand, his member feeling like a dove in a cage: tense, lost, framed by almost invisible fair hairs, like the ephemeral fluff of a dandelion.
Mikael pressed his forehead into Malek's shoulder, pulling the jacket lapels so tight they creaked, his own breath escaping his chest in ragged, hoarse gasps. Every movement of Malek's fingers, every circle traced by the pads at the base of his palm, kneading the archangelic member, made him arch and tremble like an unkissed youth.
Malek leaned in so his lips touched the shell of his ear, his voice thick as honey.
"You remember," he whispered, and his breath burned the skin, "everything here is built on mutual consent. Stop me, and I'll stop, I promise."
He didn't cease the movement of his hand, giving his promise weight and reality. The foreskin had already pulled back, exposing the swollen, reddish-pink head, and Malek was already thinking about what would become of Mikael if he were to touch that pleading rosiness with his lips. Mikael convulsively, hoarsely drew in air, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. His eyes darkened with shame, fear, confusion, and Malek almost thought he would say 'no', but…
Mikael leaned into him and muttered, breathless with desire.
"Don't… don't stop. Faster. Before I change my mind."