13 June 2012

WIP: Apocalypse

Last week you got a little taste of a finished contemporary short story. This week, I thought I'd post a snippet from the WIP I'm actually writing. It's all about angels and the Apocalypse. Fun times!

Michael ran his hand through long, silky, black tresses, loving the feel of that soft hair gliding through his fingers.

His lover knelt in front of him, between his knees. His arms were wrapped around Michael’s hips, and his face rested against Michael’s clothed abdomen.

They were in Michael’s sitting room. The curtains were closed, though it wouldn’t have mattered if they were or not. It was still light inside.

"Come up here," Michael whispered, and his beloved instantly rose from the floor to straddle Michael’s thighs. Their lips met in soft kisses, their cheeks brushed together in a small, but intimate caress of skin on skin.

But it wasn’t enough. Michael had to feel more skin, more of the beautiful man who was his—only his. He slid his hands inside the black, satin robe and stroked a flat, hard chest. The gown loosened and fell down over slender shoulders, showing that perfect torso off to the room as a whole. But only Michael was there to see the perfection. Just as it should be ...

"Michael ..." His lover’s sensual voice fanned over his lips and Michael leaned forward to catch those plump lips in a deep, intimate, loving kiss. "Oh beloved, let us never part ..."

"I could never part from you, love," Michael whispered in answer. "You’re my one and only, you are my light."

"Oh, Michael," he groaned, plastering their bodies together and kissing Michael passionately. Michael let his arm fall down to wrap around his beloved’s waist, while his other gently caressed its way up the soft neck to tangle in the silky hair at the nape of his neck. The hair was so long it reached the middle of his back, and Michael could never get enough of it. "Michael," he sighed. He loved Michael’s hands in his hair as much as Michael loved having them there. "Michael ..."


Michael broke the kiss and looked over his beloved’s shoulder, and saw to his horror Jibril standing there. The scene dissolved and where his beloved’s weight had just been, there was now nothing but air.

"No!" He cried out. "Lu!"

And he sat up straight in his bed, looking around with wide eyes. Jibril stood to his side, expression neutral, but her eyes swirled with emotions and questions she would never ask.

Michael felt embarrassed at being caught in one of his bittersweet memories, and he threw his legs over the edge of his bed and pulled his breeches on, then a tunic. He cinched it with a belt, and wrapped his sword-belt around his hips as well. He needed the reassuring weight of his sword at his hip.

He didn’t once look at Jibril as he made himself presentable.

"We’re meeting Raphael and Uriel outside," Jibril spoke up, voice low as she glided past him towards the door.

Michael followed her silently, wondering if he should say something or not. Should he tell her that it was a memory, that he’d had an affair so long ago with a now Exiled angel? Or should he let her think the most probable, that he’d only lusted after the angel? Because she couldn’t possible know the dream had been spurned by resurfacing memories.

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