Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Misha saw pure different than most of his ilk. For him, pure wasn't 'bout lacking the kind of sin religion said came writ down on plates and tablets and papyrus. For Misha, pure didn't have a damn thing to do with rules, and it had everything to do with a person's soul. That was maybe simple as could be, but Misha was a real low-order angel. His job, his daddy's job, his momma's job, it had always been folks. There were angels high up and real austere, and they saw things different than Misha. Those angels, they didn't think Misha deserved wings, and Misha, he reckoned they didn't deserve wings.
This boy pressed up against Misha now, he smelled of chemicals and green things mostly, and Misha thought that felt clean and pure too. Not like himself. There wasn't anything ethereal 'bout Oliver, and that was a compliment coming from the boy leaning back against the table and waiting patient on kissing. Being real, that was the thing to aspire to, like Pinocchio.
Misha kissed sweet, and he fought real hard not to slide back and wrap shins around Oliver's ass. Holding the boy there, even without his hands, would be real bad. Misha had already decided that for himself, and he reminded himself of it in the kissing. He smiled against Oliver's mouth nice, a reaction to the twitching fingers that gave Oliver away some.
But the parting of lips, opening of mouth, Misha hadn't been expecting that offering. He drank eager some, mouth pressed to the other boy's with lips chapped and a kind of energy that was all long limbs and no real threat. He licked past Oliver's lips once, quick and darting into the other boy's mouth, and he sat up some, pressed his chest to Oliver's in some kind of invitation and need for touching, even if he kept his hands good and still from falling on Oliver's hips, where Misha wanted them to be real bad.