Status: A long work in progress. I still need Ivanov to get back to me.
Reunion
Catching Up
As the door clicked closed, Ivanov pinned Nikki to the brick wall and bit hard into her neck. Her nails dug into the leather of his belt as her memories flooded across his tongue.
He felt her pain when she thought he had died. The indignant fury that the artist would leave his creation with the paint still drying. Felt her blossoming pride and self-esteem when she realized that he thought her perfect and finished before his death, and her desire to prove him right. He witnessed her victimization at the hands of the remaining clan elders in New Orleans and saw her building on her plan to go back and make them all pay, because no one was allowed to hurt her. Only he could, and he had gone. She had usurped as much power as she could lay her hands on and was planning on going back to New Orleans as soon as she had the means. He saw the way she had catered to another artist, had drawn him in and played the part of his muse until he let his guard down enough for her to devour his power. He watched as she seduced his previous muse, coddling her and warming her heart (and her bed) until she trusted Nikki as much as her master had, only to meet the same fate. Their blood and power ran thick in Nikki's blood now, and he savored the taste of it. He knew how she had collaborated with the Colonel and with Noel to get the barracks buried out in the desert, knew the codes to the doors and the names of every soul there.
And then, her nightmares came to him. Losing him night after night and the soul-rending pain that came with it. The times she had woken up with his name on her lips and tears on her cheeks. He saw the times she had woken up in the Colonel's arms, the ways she had encouraged him to ravish her. Every embrace, every touch, every kiss. He snarled against her throat and forced her back against the wall. But she hadn't moved on, never. Her heart only belonged to him, even after all this time.
He began to pull away, but then her most recent memories ensnared him. The cold betrayal of seeing him again, the sheer fury at knowing he had left her without a thought, without a word, without a single care. He saw the ways she had thought about attacking him, how much she wanted to feel his bones crack in her hands. But here she was, meek as a kitten with her soul bared to him and his teeth in her neck, complacent as any slaughtering lamb.
He ripped himself away from her, tearing the skin of her throat in the process. Her heavy-lidded eyes met his, and then she pulled him tighter to her, hips to hips, and tilted her head up for a kiss. He smiled, tilting his head down to meet her lips. Her smile sharpened and lightning-quick, she nipped at his exposed throat, treating herself to his memories.
He tasted like cigarettes and steel and snow. Her teeth sank into his flesh without warning or permission, shocking him for the briefest moment. He grimaced as she drank deeply, moaning against his skin. Visions of his one-night-stand murders and failed experiments and the satisfaction of self-sufficient loneliness flickered through her mind like reels of old film. Just as she realized he'd seen her that night, in this very alley with the imposter, he tore away from her with another snarl, his lips bruising hers with the force of the kiss.
Her nails tore at the fabric of his jacket, popping seams. He ripped the gauzy fabric of her dress away from her skin, baring her scars, flesh, and tattoos. His mouth latched on to the swell of her breast, biting again as she clawed through the silk of his shirt to the silk of his skin. Her hands roamed down his back, across the terrain she knew so well, and found the razor sharp lines of his hipbones before untucking his shredded shirt. She gripped the edges of it and smiled up into his eyes as she pulled, popping buttons this way and that as she removed the shirt from him. He shrugged out of the remains of the jacket and let the ribbons of fabric fall behind him. Her nails sank into his flesh as he kissed her hungrily.
***
The amorous pair were completely ignorant of the shuffling steps of the drunk as he approached their alley. When he turned and saw their half-dressed states, he grinned to himself.
“What's goin' on here?” He slurred, stumbling forward. The man pulled away from the woman with the extensive tattoos and grinned, his mouth smeared red with her lipstick.
“Don't wanna interrupt,” the drunk belched, “you look like you're havin' a good time, but I'm next.”
The woman turned to look at him lazily, with a grin to match the man's.
“Damn right, you are.”
He felt her pain when she thought he had died. The indignant fury that the artist would leave his creation with the paint still drying. Felt her blossoming pride and self-esteem when she realized that he thought her perfect and finished before his death, and her desire to prove him right. He witnessed her victimization at the hands of the remaining clan elders in New Orleans and saw her building on her plan to go back and make them all pay, because no one was allowed to hurt her. Only he could, and he had gone. She had usurped as much power as she could lay her hands on and was planning on going back to New Orleans as soon as she had the means. He saw the way she had catered to another artist, had drawn him in and played the part of his muse until he let his guard down enough for her to devour his power. He watched as she seduced his previous muse, coddling her and warming her heart (and her bed) until she trusted Nikki as much as her master had, only to meet the same fate. Their blood and power ran thick in Nikki's blood now, and he savored the taste of it. He knew how she had collaborated with the Colonel and with Noel to get the barracks buried out in the desert, knew the codes to the doors and the names of every soul there.
And then, her nightmares came to him. Losing him night after night and the soul-rending pain that came with it. The times she had woken up with his name on her lips and tears on her cheeks. He saw the times she had woken up in the Colonel's arms, the ways she had encouraged him to ravish her. Every embrace, every touch, every kiss. He snarled against her throat and forced her back against the wall. But she hadn't moved on, never. Her heart only belonged to him, even after all this time.
He began to pull away, but then her most recent memories ensnared him. The cold betrayal of seeing him again, the sheer fury at knowing he had left her without a thought, without a word, without a single care. He saw the ways she had thought about attacking him, how much she wanted to feel his bones crack in her hands. But here she was, meek as a kitten with her soul bared to him and his teeth in her neck, complacent as any slaughtering lamb.
He ripped himself away from her, tearing the skin of her throat in the process. Her heavy-lidded eyes met his, and then she pulled him tighter to her, hips to hips, and tilted her head up for a kiss. He smiled, tilting his head down to meet her lips. Her smile sharpened and lightning-quick, she nipped at his exposed throat, treating herself to his memories.
He tasted like cigarettes and steel and snow. Her teeth sank into his flesh without warning or permission, shocking him for the briefest moment. He grimaced as she drank deeply, moaning against his skin. Visions of his one-night-stand murders and failed experiments and the satisfaction of self-sufficient loneliness flickered through her mind like reels of old film. Just as she realized he'd seen her that night, in this very alley with the imposter, he tore away from her with another snarl, his lips bruising hers with the force of the kiss.
Her nails tore at the fabric of his jacket, popping seams. He ripped the gauzy fabric of her dress away from her skin, baring her scars, flesh, and tattoos. His mouth latched on to the swell of her breast, biting again as she clawed through the silk of his shirt to the silk of his skin. Her hands roamed down his back, across the terrain she knew so well, and found the razor sharp lines of his hipbones before untucking his shredded shirt. She gripped the edges of it and smiled up into his eyes as she pulled, popping buttons this way and that as she removed the shirt from him. He shrugged out of the remains of the jacket and let the ribbons of fabric fall behind him. Her nails sank into his flesh as he kissed her hungrily.
***
The amorous pair were completely ignorant of the shuffling steps of the drunk as he approached their alley. When he turned and saw their half-dressed states, he grinned to himself.
“What's goin' on here?” He slurred, stumbling forward. The man pulled away from the woman with the extensive tattoos and grinned, his mouth smeared red with her lipstick.
“Don't wanna interrupt,” the drunk belched, “you look like you're havin' a good time, but I'm next.”
The woman turned to look at him lazily, with a grin to match the man's.
“Damn right, you are.”
♠ ♠ ♠
More to follow.