The Angel Balthazar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tryingitall) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kore_logs2013-06-22 08:44 pm
tryingitall) wrote in kore_logs2013-06-22 08:44 pm
Entry tags:
consumed by either fire or fire
Who: Balthazar, everyone and anyone! (Balthazar's vessel may also make appearances!)
Where: Memories, mindscapes, and dreams.
When: Days 83-88
What: An orgy, the Titanic, Heavenly angst, and Art. The city is also an option, I just didn't write a blurb for it.
Warnings: Sex, angst, potential violence, possible deaths depending on scenario.
The room is a mess. Blankets and cushions are strewn about the floor, a lamp has been knocked over, and someone has spilled liquor across of the piled clothing in the corner. The scent is overwhelming in the humid heat: sex, incense, sweat, alcohol.
It’s hard to tell how many bodies are entwined together here. A dozen? More? There are four on the bed, one person clinging so hard to the headboard that it creaks with every movement. Three more are clustered around a chair, the occupant’s whines and moans muffled by the close press of nude bodies. In a corner, a young woman is giggling as another girl licks drops of wine out of her cleavage.
Somewhere amidst the knots of slick bodies, there is an angel. He may be hard to track at first, but his voice winds its way through the gathering, burning through the noises of panting and the smack of skin against skin, a litany of soft endearments and reverent curses. There, good, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop…
The sky is black overhead, dotted with frosty stars, and the water rolling beneath the hull of the ship is the color of gray pearls. Titanic is far from shore, and her passengers are cheerfully oblivious to the danger drawing near. Balthazar rode this ship once before, as a faux-first-mate. This time, he’s a stowaway, a dark figure leaning against the railing near the bow. Only an observer to a history irrevocably written down.
“Pretty night,” a man pauses to greet him, on a stroll around the deck. “Cold as hell, but pretty.”
“It is, isn’t it?” The angel agrees, looking up at the sky. “I daresay it’ll get colder before the morning comes, though. We’ll see if you still think it’s pretty then, shall we?”
The stranger laughs. “Or I could just go inside.”
“No. Enjoy the beauty while it lasts.” Balthazar gives a small, deadened smile. There’s ice close ahead. The tragedy will begin and end in only a few short hours.
Balthazar’s not sure why his mind works so selectively. He can remember vivid flashes from his first days in existence. Comets sailing past the earth, the bubble of the primordial sea, and laughter, from an archangel, that seemed too big and bright for the skies that echoed its refrain.
After Lucifer’s Fall, the memories get dim and tangled. Heaven went darker, quieter, but how quickly did it happen? How soon after the clash did Gabriel go, too? He can’t be sure, and it’s unsettling for a being that isn’t supposed to suffer from age.
Still, the young angel has his own recollection of the moments after Gabriel was gone, when it felt like Heaven itself had a gaping wound.
He’s in a garden drenched with dew, like a morning in late spring. There are no flowers, only bare lily stamens left after petals fall away. It’s quiet, and gray, and Balthazar can feel his Grace aching, trembling on the edge of collapse. Can’t you bring him back, Father? Can’t you bring them both back?
There’s no answer, but he’s not sure he expected one. God doesn’t talk to the youngest angels. Perhaps they’re too frail to hear the Divine Voice directly. Thy will be done, he adds as an afterthought, but he doesn’t mean it, and he knows it.
Still, if God isn’t hearing his prayer anyway, there’s no harm in lying. A thousand angelic eyes blink rapidly, as if to clear themselves of tears they weren’t even designed to shed.
Dead. Castiel: dead. Uriel: dead, along with the siblings he murdered. Anna: locked away, untouchable, maybe soon to die, too.
Cas. Dead.
The walls of the Heavenly armory are thick, and Balthazar is the only one inside it now. The snap and ripple of energy from a thousand enchanted weapons dances over the walls, casting shadows of his own wings that seem to shiver in constant motion. His Grace is clenched into a dense, dark knot in the center of his being, a core of emotion drawing tighter, tighter, until everything outside it feels numb. Floating.
One by one, he closes all of his eyes, and time twists away from him. He’s not sure how long he blacks out, but when he’s sensible again, the wards are smashed, the weapons strewn all over, and both vessel and trueform ache, blue with bruises.
Balthazar looks blankly at the mess for a long moment, then moves to pick things up, piece by piece. It’s not until his arms are full that he realizes he has no intention of putting them back in their proper places.
Everything is light and fire and eyes. The human within the angel feels the pressure of power and age, burned to cinders and crushed into diamonds by the being within him (or is he within the angel now?). He’s died a hundred thousand rapturous deaths, cried in pain until his voice is transmuted into something ethereal and sharp as an ofan’s wing. But he’s still there, here, everywhere the angel is, and he remembers, and dreams.
Ink slices across a page. A fine gray haze of graphite dust hangs in the air. Paint drips and rolls down the shaft of a brush, stains his hands and sleeves, rich and sensual. If he could erase his mistakes and paint himself over, he would use shades of blue and gold; he would rip himself off the canvas and re-stretch to his limits and beyond.
He curls and uncurls his fingers, and suddenly his hands are wings, fine-boned and light, brittle and soft at the edges and heavy all the way down his arms.
“I promise, you’ll have Heaven,” the angel told him. “Someday.”
“Fuck it,” he answered. “I don’t need Heaven.”
Levi has what he needs: a half-wild brainfever, an infinite blend of Paradise and Perdition where the Muse is the only God that matters. Being a vessel hasn’t taken that away. Nothing ever will.
Where: Memories, mindscapes, and dreams.
When: Days 83-88
What: An orgy, the Titanic, Heavenly angst, and Art. The city is also an option, I just didn't write a blurb for it.
Warnings: Sex, angst, potential violence, possible deaths depending on scenario.
The room is a mess. Blankets and cushions are strewn about the floor, a lamp has been knocked over, and someone has spilled liquor across of the piled clothing in the corner. The scent is overwhelming in the humid heat: sex, incense, sweat, alcohol.
It’s hard to tell how many bodies are entwined together here. A dozen? More? There are four on the bed, one person clinging so hard to the headboard that it creaks with every movement. Three more are clustered around a chair, the occupant’s whines and moans muffled by the close press of nude bodies. In a corner, a young woman is giggling as another girl licks drops of wine out of her cleavage.
Somewhere amidst the knots of slick bodies, there is an angel. He may be hard to track at first, but his voice winds its way through the gathering, burning through the noises of panting and the smack of skin against skin, a litany of soft endearments and reverent curses. There, good, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop…
The sky is black overhead, dotted with frosty stars, and the water rolling beneath the hull of the ship is the color of gray pearls. Titanic is far from shore, and her passengers are cheerfully oblivious to the danger drawing near. Balthazar rode this ship once before, as a faux-first-mate. This time, he’s a stowaway, a dark figure leaning against the railing near the bow. Only an observer to a history irrevocably written down.
“Pretty night,” a man pauses to greet him, on a stroll around the deck. “Cold as hell, but pretty.”
“It is, isn’t it?” The angel agrees, looking up at the sky. “I daresay it’ll get colder before the morning comes, though. We’ll see if you still think it’s pretty then, shall we?”
The stranger laughs. “Or I could just go inside.”
“No. Enjoy the beauty while it lasts.” Balthazar gives a small, deadened smile. There’s ice close ahead. The tragedy will begin and end in only a few short hours.
Balthazar’s not sure why his mind works so selectively. He can remember vivid flashes from his first days in existence. Comets sailing past the earth, the bubble of the primordial sea, and laughter, from an archangel, that seemed too big and bright for the skies that echoed its refrain.
After Lucifer’s Fall, the memories get dim and tangled. Heaven went darker, quieter, but how quickly did it happen? How soon after the clash did Gabriel go, too? He can’t be sure, and it’s unsettling for a being that isn’t supposed to suffer from age.
Still, the young angel has his own recollection of the moments after Gabriel was gone, when it felt like Heaven itself had a gaping wound.
He’s in a garden drenched with dew, like a morning in late spring. There are no flowers, only bare lily stamens left after petals fall away. It’s quiet, and gray, and Balthazar can feel his Grace aching, trembling on the edge of collapse. Can’t you bring him back, Father? Can’t you bring them both back?
There’s no answer, but he’s not sure he expected one. God doesn’t talk to the youngest angels. Perhaps they’re too frail to hear the Divine Voice directly. Thy will be done, he adds as an afterthought, but he doesn’t mean it, and he knows it.
Still, if God isn’t hearing his prayer anyway, there’s no harm in lying. A thousand angelic eyes blink rapidly, as if to clear themselves of tears they weren’t even designed to shed.
Dead. Castiel: dead. Uriel: dead, along with the siblings he murdered. Anna: locked away, untouchable, maybe soon to die, too.
Cas. Dead.
The walls of the Heavenly armory are thick, and Balthazar is the only one inside it now. The snap and ripple of energy from a thousand enchanted weapons dances over the walls, casting shadows of his own wings that seem to shiver in constant motion. His Grace is clenched into a dense, dark knot in the center of his being, a core of emotion drawing tighter, tighter, until everything outside it feels numb. Floating.
One by one, he closes all of his eyes, and time twists away from him. He’s not sure how long he blacks out, but when he’s sensible again, the wards are smashed, the weapons strewn all over, and both vessel and trueform ache, blue with bruises.
Balthazar looks blankly at the mess for a long moment, then moves to pick things up, piece by piece. It’s not until his arms are full that he realizes he has no intention of putting them back in their proper places.
Everything is light and fire and eyes. The human within the angel feels the pressure of power and age, burned to cinders and crushed into diamonds by the being within him (or is he within the angel now?). He’s died a hundred thousand rapturous deaths, cried in pain until his voice is transmuted into something ethereal and sharp as an ofan’s wing. But he’s still there, here, everywhere the angel is, and he remembers, and dreams.
Ink slices across a page. A fine gray haze of graphite dust hangs in the air. Paint drips and rolls down the shaft of a brush, stains his hands and sleeves, rich and sensual. If he could erase his mistakes and paint himself over, he would use shades of blue and gold; he would rip himself off the canvas and re-stretch to his limits and beyond.
He curls and uncurls his fingers, and suddenly his hands are wings, fine-boned and light, brittle and soft at the edges and heavy all the way down his arms.
“I promise, you’ll have Heaven,” the angel told him. “Someday.”
“Fuck it,” he answered. “I don’t need Heaven.”
Levi has what he needs: a half-wild brainfever, an infinite blend of Paradise and Perdition where the Muse is the only God that matters. Being a vessel hasn’t taken that away. Nothing ever will.
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Cheeks flushed, her chin lifted as she tried not to show that she was embarrassed. She was an adult. Almost. She was a shifter. Nakedness and sex shouldn't bother her. It didn't in that taboo sense of 'oh my god, not sex!', but it was that she had no actively practical knowledge of it herself.
"I, um, I... That would probably be best, Balthazar." He looked mussed up, sleepy, sated, aroused, and if it wasn't for the part of him she was pointedly not looking at, he'd look somewhat adorable.
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He gets up and pulls a sheet off the bed, eyeing it critically for cleanliness, then wraps up in it, stumbling over to open the door for her. "Let me call you a cab, then? Don't want you driving home if you've been drinking the champagne."
He's clumsy and shaky with adrenaline, and there are a few marks along his neck that suggest someone's been biting, but for as involved as he was in the activity a moment ago, he doesn't seem mad to have been interrupted. The door opens for him, leading into a long, tidy hallway hung with bright watercolors in simple frames. At the end of it, there's a flicker of multicolored track lighting that makes the room beyond look like a discotheque, but there does seem to be a phone on a table by a disheveled sofa.
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She couldn't not smile at that, watching the door open with just a twinge of frustration. Stupid door. She wonders about that, about what would happen if she just pushed him back through it and sat on this side of it so he could enjoy his, um, happy time. Would she find herself back in the room? Would she be able to slip out of his dream? She wasn't sure, but she didn't want him to realize who she was or that she'd seen something he probably didn't want her to see.
"I can, uh, I can phone a cab. I'm fine. No drinking for me tonight. You should, um, go back to your... thing." Yes, his thing. His thing that she could smell all over him, the scents of multiple people mingled in with his own in addition to that raw and musky sex scent.
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"You're sure? I'd be a poor host to just leave you all alone...did you come with someone?" He leans against the living room doorway and rubs his face. "I suppose I've had a bit too much fun tonight; I really can't remember everyone that's here."
He can't shake the feeling he should know who she is. It's starting to bother him.
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"Are you okay?" He looked tired and she wasn't sure if that was the seemingly copious amounts of sex he'd had showing or something else. Maybe something a little more sinister. Which made her sort of want to go back into the room and kick everyone out. Even if it was a past dream or a memory, she didn't like the thought of anyone doing anything bad to him, especially not when she'd found out that he died in the future in his world. She didn't like that one bit.
"Maybe you should sit down for a minute."
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Still, it's kind of her to be worried about him, and he comes around to sit on the sofa with a sigh. The bruises he had when he emerged from the orgy are long gone, faded thanks to his angelic healing factor. "I've forgotten your name, I'm afraid."
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She's still smiling as he goes to sit on the couch, and it doesn't seem like such a terrible thing to tell him her name. "It's Riley. Um, do you want some water? There has to be water around here, right? What is this, a hotel?"
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Not that he has a problem with virgins, either, just it seems like tossing someone into a river to teach them how to swim. Well. Too late to worry about now, and there seems to be no harm done, if she can laugh at a bad joke. "You're sweet. There's water in the kitchen. This is my apartment, though, not a hotel..."
He trails off as the name sinks in, reaching unconsciously for the cat-pendant at the end of the chain around his neck. Riley. Of course, he knows Riley. They went running not long ago...
The penny drops, and his eyes go wide as the flush on his skin redoubles. "oh. Shite. I...am so very sorry."
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She came back over to the couch, sitting beside him and reaching for his arm. "I was, um, trying to sneak out before you figured it out. I guess I kind of failed at that, huh?"
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She looked around at the room, giving him a bit of a cheeky grin. "I guess this is some place from your past? Did you actually, um, do that?" She gestured back to the room they'd come from, trying not to look too curious.
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But at least it's a nice dream! He grins, looking far less sheepish now. Almost pleased with himself, in fact. "More than once, yes. This is the biggest group I had, though, and the only one in my own place. I suppose it's a bit shocking if you're not prepared for it, but if everyone's gentle and sticks to the ground rules, it's very nice."
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This would be her first group experience and she didn't know there'd be rules. "Maybe you just wanted to go to sleep. Or relive a few, um, interesting memories." Because he certainly seemed to have been enjoying himself.
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"Or...well, I suppose you don't know, firsthand, but I'm sure you can imagine."
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She could actually understand liking being bitten, but perhaps that was her feline side commenting without commenting. Female feline shifters did have very sensitive necks and she had to be careful of who touched what.
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"I've been to Rome. Too close to the Vatican. Paris is all right; I like Nice better."
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As they headed for the stairs, she wondered what was down there. "You got a dungeon down there? Is this where I get to see the kinky side of Balthy?"
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"Wh--no! It's my library! The...look, this apartment's the second floor of a building I bought. I had a gallery on the first floor. I thought you might want to see." Pause. Stare. "But, I mean, if you'd rather get sweaty, I'm sure the orgy is still going on upstairs..."
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He's tried a number of things, and enjoyed most of them, but ultimately, groups are his kink. He's starting to feel like this conversation is getting out of hand. And yet, he's afraid he's embarrassed her now. Hesitantly, he explains: "I like...as much attention as I can handle, all at once. It makes me feel less alone. That's why...all that."
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