NSFW under the cut.
You’re walking down a deserted, pumpkin-orange-streetlamp lit street when you meet an angel.
You’re twenty-one and you’ve had two beers and you are bored, and she claims the last flashing months of appearing nineteen when you talk to her, really talk to her, because you’re twenty-one and bored and her wings are askew and she’s really very pretty in the dimly twining light around the both of you.
Her voice is high and light, effervescent in the way you and your friends used to pretend when you were imitating obnoxious girls in your high school class. But there’s something mystical about hers, something in the tone that enchants you instead of makes you think she’s a ditzy blonde, though she is in fact blonde. Her hair tumbles in flaxen, abstract waves and kinks around thin shoulders. It could use a brushing, but you can tell it was beautiful once. She smiles at you sweetly as you please, though the image is made somewhat more disturbing by the dirt on her thin, knobby knees and the wings on her back, the elastic kind that go over your shoulder, falling to the side. She tells you she’s an angel with a slight giggle you don’t know what do to with in your mind, and you ask her if she has a place to stay for the night. Not because you’re turned on by her (though if you really admit to yourself, you are), but because there’s something in her eye that looks hopeless, like the end of something.
She hesitates answering by saying simply “oh” and then “wow,” and then she takes your hand in hers, like a little girl might hold on to a mother. “I don’t think I do,” she says, and feeling that this is the strangest night of your life, you lead her cautiously to your apartment.
When you key open the door and usher her in, she looks around almost warily, like she doesn’t know what to do with an actual place with four walls and a ceiling.
You tell her she can use the shower to clean up a bit, since she looks like she could use a hot shower and a little bit of food. It’s past two in the morning at this point and you don’t really even remember why you thought it was a good idea to be out this late, but now you’re tired and hurting a little and you’re listening to the sounds of her running the water in the bathroom, and when you walk by the door on the way to take out your contacts for the night and put on your glasses, you can hear her humming a half-familiar tune, dipping into singing every few notes. Her voice isn’t fantastic, but it’s not bad like yours either.
You open the door just briefly, to toss in an old t-shirt for her that goes down to your mid-thighs. She’s shorter than you, so when she comes out you think it will probably come to her knees. And when you catch just that glimpse of the bathroom floor, the sad, dirt-streaked angel wings are carefully laid over the sink.
You’re right. About the t-shirt. She looks smaller than ever in it, with the fabric hanging off her shoulders, endearing but at the same time sort of lost with the smell of your shampoo in her hair and her wings affixed to the whole image, making her seem even more lost than she had looked before.
But you make up the sofa for her anyway, covering it with the warmest duvet because you saw her shiver out of the corner of your eye, leaning in the doorframe, and clean sheets and a pillow off of your own bed, this strange little angel, wind-battered and beautiful, you make her a bed. And before you go for your own, you kiss her on the forehead because you are twenty-one and bored and it seems the thing to do, though you’re not exactly sure why. And she smiles, thanks you, and she sits cross-legged on the pillow, wings crushed into the cushions behind her, closing her eyes and moving her lips in words you cannot hear, because she is not speaking them.
That’s how you leave her.
You take your own shower in the bathroom and you walk into your room wrapped in your towel, which you promptly remove after you close the door. You look at your own body in the mirror. You think that if you were someone else looking at your torso, your breasts, the curve of your hips, you would find everything okay. But since you are you and it is your body, possessive, you see the areas you do not like, how your eyes are too far apart and your feet are a tad too large, the slight bulge that has appeared over your waistline, the heaviness of your behind you think that you could possibly fix with another hour a week at the gym.
It is then you hear the door open.
You scramble for your towel, holding it in front of you, feeling its dampness leach back into your skin, mingling with your blush. She’s standing there, the angel, with her head slightly tilted and her eyes looking straight into yours, and she doesn’t say anything, but she smiles, and for some reason you are arrested by it.
And then she’s looking at you with eyes that are almost painful in their intensity, and you’re still twenty-one but suddenly you are not bored anymore because she is crossing the room and she stretches to kiss you on the cheek, and you’re blushing even more now, and she’s saying “thank you for everything” and then there’s this strange light in her eyes that you can’t identify and you’re kissing her on the mouth, softly, sweetly, and she’s pressing herself against you and your damp towel in your damp t-shirt and those wings of hers. And her tongue explores your mouth, gently at first, and you part your lips to give her more access. It is becoming hard to think with this angel kissing you, her small but sure hands cupping your jaw.
You do have some qualms about the idea of falling into bed with a stranger that you met approximately an hour and a half ago, but now her hands are moving down to your shoulders, your waist, slipping under the slipping towel, and you’re sliding the elastic bands that hold her wings in place off your angel, leaving her with a back only covered by a thin layer of t-shirt, and it’s quite hard to think why you ever objected in the first place. It’s right before you fall onto the duvet, her on top, that you pull your own shirt from her shoulders and she flicks the towel’s makeshift securing mechanism, and everything’s falling on the floor in a tangle of light-colored fabric that for some reason hurts your heart a little.
But then she’s straddling you, and you don’t know what to do anymore, you’re reduced to the most basic of human needs; to make yourself feel good, to make someone else feel good, to achieve the purest and basest of human pleasures, and so you’re kissing her, you’re reaching up to grab her by the still-damp hair and you’re kissing her, slipping your tongue into her mouth as you tangle together. She kisses the corner of your mouth, each of your eyelids, and then down the line of your jaw to your neck. She explores you with her hands and then her mouth, toying with a breast and then kissing it softly. You hear yourself moan slightly as she moves from your chest down your stomach and then between your thighs.
Your eyes go wide when she touches you, feeling you, tracing a line with a ragged fingernail from your inner thighs to the apex between your legs. She teases around you for a moment before slipping a finger inside of you, which causes you to arch your back, your eyes fluttering shut. Feelings you can barely even identify are coursing through you, and it’s incredible and a little bit painful but beautifully so as she adds another finger, finding a better angle necessary to curl her fingers up to reach the place inside of you that burns with pleasure.
She seems to understand what you like, what you want, what makes you feel good, and she’s letting you thrust against her fingers and alternately twirls inside you and reaches her head down to run her tongue across what she’s not occupying with her small, nimble hands. You’re wound tighter than a rubber ball, and it’s not taking you long to respond to her touch, feeling a tensing in your stomach, a stiffening in the muscles of your legs.
It’s strange because she hasn’t said a word. A few soft, light hums and a soft cry of appreciation when she felt you around her, but no words. All the other partners you have had have told you what they’re doing in terms that you found, frankly, disgusting, but you couldn’t find the words to tell them that because fingers are fingers and mouths are mouths and touch is touch and really when you closed your eyes and ceased listening, it wasn’t bad at all. But you don’t want to do that with this angel, the angel with the pale skin of her back that you’re finding a rhythm with, that’s crawling back on top of you at the right angle for you to enter her. She gasps as you do so, the effervescence in her voice clearer and throatier as the both of you find a more comfortable position, so that your wrists do not hurt. You played piano for thirteen years and you think it messed your wrists up. Sometimes they hurt when at odd angles.
It almost seems as if she knows this.
You’re moving together again now, soft breaths and hollow moans mingling in the quiet air of the bedroom. And all of a sudden you’re noticing the strangest things. There is a crack on your wall that you think seems (in shape) vaguely familiar from somewhere else. How the headboard moves gently against the wall it’s pushed up against, creating a tiny gap with each break and then going back with each thrust you make against each other, sparks trailing over your skin, something you can’t quite identify creeping up your spine. And then you’re falling into the encounter again, focusing only on her touch, her kiss, her lips on your neck and the soft way her fingers curl inside you, how she sometimes pulls out just enough to tease your center, the bundle of nerves at your surface that makes you cry out with a choked groan.
It’s lasting longer than you thought it was going to, but unlike with some partners you’ve been with things aren’t getting boring in the middle, get to the point already, can-we-just-come and get this over with. You’re still invested, emotionally drawn, physically gasping, back arching, mind blurry, vision pixelating around the edges. You’re still wanting more, looking into her eyes, watching her bite her lip, amazed at the reactions you can elicit from her; this is something that doesn’t cease to amaze you. How the simple drawing of fingers, of tongues, of bits of rubber, how this can get such extreme responses out of humans.
Right before you fall off the edge, before you explode in a frenzy of moans and pulsing inner walls, before you feel yourself contract around her fingers, before any of that you realize that you do not have a name to call, that you do not have something to name her with as you come, and that is why you feel a sense of loss when it is over, when she stifles her cry into the pillow and you manage to crawl down to taste her even in the utter exhaustion you’re feeling. That is why when you drift off into an uneasy sleep after a quick second round that only lasts a few minutes, and that might be why you see her in your dreams, flying up to touch the stars.
You don’t know any of this for sure. But you do know that when you wake up, she is gone. A feather, a fake feather, a feather streaked with dirt, lies on the messy bedside table on top of a few books whose titles do not matter, and that and the ghost of her touches are the only things left of your small, nimble, laughing-dirty-dress, knee-length t-shirt, utterly mysterious and beautiful-sweet angel.