dumbshow | CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

[Well, he's not exactly pleased with how this little secret meeting has turned out - does that make you feel better, creep?

He takes a step back and smooths out his weird curtain outfit. Don't look now but there's even a subtle hairflip when he looks up again.]

I already knew about your incredible talent for wasting time. [he mentioned it like 30 times today, even

also that was probably criticism for not giving him a good hobby, not that he would have listened... and now he's just idly watching Metatron flip his wrist around, yeeeaah causing damage mmm]

[Maybe a little. Slowly he will wear you out one way or another.

A talent is a talent, Michael. Thanks for the compliment. But now that he has finished his very necessary check up on his poor wrist he needs to go back to bothering the Michael. It's good that you've fixed yourself up because Metatron is just going to gracelessly drape his arms around Michael's neck. Hugs... If he can get away with it he will plop his chin right on top of his head.]

There's a whole lot to waste. [being immortal suxs, txt it] A naps the best way though.

[Sleep next to him, Michael~~~

Ah. Metatron is tenderly touching those wings too as he drapes. Hello.]

[Lewd.

It's like, over and over Michael thinks he has the upper hand, and then the upper hand is snatched cruelly away from him. Who actually allowed Metatron to be so tall? This is probably blasphemy--

He has a snappy answer, if by snappy we mean "just saying no really emphatically again," but he tosses that to the winds when hands invade his pristine wings. What he says instead is,]

Off!

[And then, since he has a faceful of Metatron and nowhere to move his hands unless he wants to burn the whole hallway down, he whacks him--with a wing. They're handy for more than flying, who knew! Please enjoy the token sparkling rain of feathers that accompanies literally anything Michael does with his wings.]

[All he is doing is touching. Stop being so over reactive, he isn't usurping you (yet). Truly he is a saint.

Oof. That sure is a wing hitting him out of fucking nowhere. Metatron was not expecting that so it knocks him off balance and right on his ass. Look, now Michael is finally taller! He won't be getting up right away so savor it.

Metatron catches one of the many fluttering feathers and spins it between two fingers. A little amused laugh.]

It's like it's snowing.

Edited 2014-01-07 03:45 (UTC)

[Jeanne is a saint, Metatron is just annoying. Michael is savoring this moment, though.

Savoring in a sick way, of course; while he stands there and looks down at Metatron there is nothing about his expression that doesn't scream "now you're in your rightful place," because -- he's nuts. And so on. He takes a step forward, planting one foot by Metatron's knee and bracing the other one against his abdomen. All his weight is pressing on that foot, more so when he bends forward to stare into Metatron's face again and reach behind him, shoving his hand roughly into the feathers at the base of one wing.

For a moment, he doesn't do anything - he doesn't even move, save for a slowly intensifying squeeze on that wing base. It's hard to read his face now; part of him would do this thing he's halfway threatening, part of him wouldn't. The catch is that both sides are fueled by the same disaster area that is his feelings for Metatron, not that he'll admit it, not that he'll even hint that there's something he isn't admitting (he may be a little less successful about this last point). He's angry, of course, but it's undercut with something less clear, less simple. The rules of the world are absolute and easy, but this - this. His opinion of Metatron is tangled in so many things he can barely think about it without getting angry about thinking about it.

He remembers: a human man, a grasping hand, a vow. An earnest and genuine man (for a human) who now, with his borrowed wings and ridiculous suggestions, still possesses some... part of Michael. Somewhere. It disgusts him, but he will do nothing about it. He tells himself, only Lucifer concerns him, and he tries to believe it.

If angels had bad habits (Michael obviously has none, presently), then Metatron would be his. There is another second where he searches Metatron's face for something, anything at all besides giggling and whimsy - then he scoffs, pulling out a handful of little feathers and kicking him squarely in the chest.]

[Looks like Metatron is the new rug for the hallway. He expects kicks and grinding heels, it wouldn't be the first time, but what Michael does surprises even him.

It would be alright if Michael did it, after all. No one would question it.

Metatron stares, probing his actions as closely in return. The smile stays but he's definitely questioning. It's clear on his face he is wondering if Michael will go through with it, almost daring him to do it. Rip them, throw them to the ground, smite him. It would be interesting. To see if Michael would really punish him, maybe even rip out both and cast him down. He could move on then.

But he knows it would never happen. Even as the grip tightens he can see the slight wavering within him. They've been going back and forth like this for millennial, he couldn't hope for change now. As his feathers are torn he winces and falls back with the kick. Metatron sighs as he stares up at the ceiling. He had gotten his hopes up.]

You shouldn't threaten such things so readily.

[A light chiding. He never stopped smiling.]

[It is a strange stalemate, this - Michael unable to exact his justice because it's exactly what Metatron wants. He makes another derisive noise, shaking his hand free of feathers over Metatron's body like a handful of dirt. Metatron can chide and suggest all he wants, but Michael is stalwart and sure,]

I am the bringer of justice. [Casually, like a reminder: things Metatron cannot have.] Not you. You exist only by my blessing.

[Which, apparently, is what he's calling it these days. It helps little that he nearly hisses it, cinching the last syllable with a stomp on Metatron's wing. He clasps his hands behind his back and stands straight as he looks down (the ruler surveying his kingdom), and it's unclear whether he's talking to Metatron or himself anymore. He lifts his other foot, preparation for another kick - but then all he does is toe the upper part of the wing he's trampling over, tracing the edge to the first joint. He tilts his head, idly thoughtful.]

These wings... I'll do whatever I want with them. It was never your choice.

Edited 2014-01-07 05:05 (UTC)

[Michael...

Metatron turns his head to look at Michael's foot ~~fetish~~. It can't be said that he likes being trampled on this way. More like a weird little bonus when you obsess over crazy angels. He knows he really shouldn't push Michael any more than he has but being looked down even more obviously than before is a tad grating.

He grabs Michael's ankle, the foot still on his chest. It's a light hold, his thumb running along the joint at the heel, but the threat is clear: he might just try to yank you off.]

I don't know what you've been waiting for then, o Michael on high.

[He's honestly done more than enough for it and they both know it.]

[Metatron doesn't seem to understand the simple fact that Michael does not have to be right all the time (but in this case of controlling fates, he is actually right), because he has the authority to make himself right, anyway. Surely, he isn't hesitating. This is a decision he's made, and has kept making.

He taps his foot on that wing joint, disapprovingly, but makes no move to shake the grip off his ankle. This is another attempt to get him to turn on his own word, and he doesn't appreciate it. The reason he does nothing - or one of the reasons, the one he can properly articulate - is simple: he will not send Metatron to Hell. Delivering his bound man directly into his brother's hands? Frankly, he'd rather not.

Waiting is such a human concept. Michael has little concept of dragging things out (although that is catching up with him, lately), and on some level it did not occur to him that Metatron would still be keeping track of how long he hasn't been human. He shrugs.]

A leader must do right by his subordinates. All of them.

[Damning all his angels for being annoying--it only takes the first one--would be a bad idea, yeah? He tries to keep his voice level, but by the end he's practically grinding his teeth, and it just gets worse-]

Someone like you shouldn't speak so flippantly.

[Have any decisions made by Michael ever been the right one though? A question for the ages.

It's a shame because Metatron would really like to meet Lucifer. It sometimes sucks to be human, he missed out on meeting the older brother of this hot mess. Although he'll outlive the younger if he never goes to sleep (which he should still do already).

Metatron taps his fingers on top of Michael's foot. Subordinates... Like any of the other angels consider him an equal. You already said you own him, just admit he's your toy. No need to be embarrassed. He hums at the insult, as if he would ever consider shutting up.]

It's fun though.

[That is all the reason he needs.]

[No one is allowed to meet Lucifer, stop thinking about it.]

Fun.

[Wow, did he really just... jeez, this is the worst toy ever. This time Michael wiggles his foot a bit - stop tapping ugh - but it's not like he'll stop stepping on Metatron anytime soon, despite that. He frowns down at him instead, like he has been doing, but with less venom than before. Not none--but less. It's tiring (not a word) to keep telling him to be quiet, or be serious, or give up on his subtle hints. Sometimes, Michael would like to be left alone.

Which is, of course, impossible. But still.]

Provocation is your game, isn't it... What a bore. [He bends a little, and sticks out his arm.] Give me your hand.

[yeah guess which one he means]

[Yeah. Why else would he be doing this? It's totally just for fun, don't think it's anything else. Mmhm.

In fact, he was going to be even more annoying for the hell of it when suddenly there is a hand. Oh no. Instantly he is reminded of the past, when the two first met. He was just excited, he had no idea of how much he would come to resent it. This easily hurt more than any of the kicks and stomps. He want to slap that hand out of his face. Push it away and beat Michael back until he falls down onto the ground. Unleash all his own pent up frustrations right back on Michael.

Slowly, he lifts his hand up and takes it.

Like he could do anything else.]

[Before Metatron takes his hand, Michael waits. It's as if those few seconds stretch across thousands of years and suddenly the man pinned under his heel is just that, a man, and he himself is all but dizzy with the need to take hold of him and possess him. But it was never wholly Michael's action; that hand reached out to him on its own, and he laid the terms himself - we curse each other.

It was always mutual, this indescribable thing between them. The past is something vile caught in the back of his throat, and Michael can no longer rely on eternity to take him away from it.

He smiles at Metatron's hand in his, without malice for once, although it lacks the pure radiance he tries to keep up. There is something wrong with them both; it's been far too long to change that now.]

So you can be quieted, still. [His voice is low in an almost unguarded way. Almost. He holds tight to Metatron's hand and lifts the other to run his fingers from the back of the wrist to his fingertips. A caress, if he weren't still digging a heel right into Metatron's chest.

can't have everything in life]

You understand, don't you? You are still mine, no matter what game it is.

[Metatron regrets his choice instantly. Every touch tightens his chest in a way he would never talk about if he had the choice. He's elated - he hates that - at the same time he remembers endless years of emptiness. But his hand feels on fire and he doesn't want to let go.

Ever since this little ordeal started this has been the first time Metatron has grimaced. The stillness is broken, he shifts on the ground and rustles his wings. This isn't fun anymore and he actually feels uncomfortable. Wrong, wrong, wrong-

His grip suddenly tightens in return. He hates you.]

You're really no fun.

[Ironically, Metatron is the one that sounds tired for once. So tired.]

[Michael suddenly realizes this is what he's been striving for. Avoiding Metatron is one thing - it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, a dissatisfaction, but this reaction is different. He can see Metatron love and hate him in the same moment and digs his fingers into his hand as well. There are hooks in Metatron's flesh and every one of them is Michael, Michael, Michael--

A grin breaks over his face, too wide, and then he laughs. No matter what mood he's in, the way he laughs will always ring out like bells, and he hopes every inch of Metatron aches for it. The whole hallway hums with it, and before the last echo fades Michael suddenly moves. The most notable change is that he finally removes his foot from Metatron's chest, if only to drop to his knees and squeeze against his ribs. Their bound hands remain bound, but Michael's other hand thrusts back into Metatron's wing feathers as he looms head and shoulders over - and likely much too close to - his face.

Is this the attention you wanted so badly?]

Fun! No fun, no fun at all. What did you think would happen?

[He stares down at him, and there is nothing else in the world outside the two of them. And with all the finesse of someone who always asks the one thing he shouldn't:]

Did I hurt your feelings?

[Metatron can't believe he messed up like this. He lost his cool and gave Michael everything he wanted and now he had to deal with the consequences. Which suck for the record. Just like this curse and everything surrounding Michael as a whole. He feels the skin break and it looks like Michael's really under his skin now ha ha ha-- he clicks his tongue.

This is out of control and he has no idea what to do. With Michael on top of him he moves his free hand to sink his nails into the flesh above Michael's ridiculous stockings. Anything done to him he will return, even if there's no way to stop this train wreck.

The worst part is that he is forced to look upwards. Right at Michael's smug smile, his head haloed by the radiant light that never stops around here. It's infuriating and beautiful. Just like his clear voice that cuts his composure he has spent so long perfecting.]

Would you care either way?

[Michael's mind is reeling, a mess of memories and desires and if Metatron has lost his cool then what is he, wild-eyed and close to manic?

The nails on his thigh bring him back to himself and he hisses through his teeth involuntarily. It aggravates more than it hurts, although the meaning does not escape him when he feels blood well up under Metatron's fingers. That's going to get on his stockings. He's going to be cross.

But his near-mania seems to fizzle out all at once when he's forced, again, to confront things he'd rather push to the side. Does he care about Metatron? He knows the answer even before he absorbs the question - of course he does. If Michael wanted to be rid of someone, truly rid of them, then he would be -- it's black and white. He still cares about Uriel, and that incident is practically legendary. Of course he cares.

Still, Metatron wants to tear him down. If it weren't for that, then...]

I allow you to stay. [He looks down--or rather down and back, at his bleeding leg (sorry about his hair going everywhere). Letting go of Metatron's wing, he moves to push his hand down if not away - blood smears; I let you damage me.

It could mean a lot of things.]

You have been insolent.

[A hallow laugh. Insolent. That sure is one way to put it.

Michael, he knows what he is. You don't have to keep reminding him that he was a toy you picked up on a whim. He gets it. He's yours. So possessive. Like he is one to talk in the slightest.

If the stockings were safe before they aren't anymore, Metatron's hand definitely smears the blood as it is shoved away. He brings the hand to his mouth, touching the blood to his lips. His smile starts to creep back into place, just the corners of his mouth visible.]

I'm not an idiot, Michael, no matter what you think.

[It's your heaven, that's why he's trying to take it.]

[Well he can't have it, so there.

Now, in Michael's defense, he never did say Metatron is an idiot. If he were, Michael wouldn't be nearly as paranoid as he is--that's important. He might be the kind of idiot who gets into these interesting situations with someone like Michael, but they both know that's not what he means.

Michael frowns. His hand follows Metatron's and he puts just his fingertips on his knuckles, pressing down casually. Don't do things halfway, Metatron. Is that the kind of reputation an angel should have? On his other hand his fingers are nearly slippery with blood by now, but he still holds on.]

You don't know what I think.

[Of all the things to address it's that petty shit. Michael... Plus Metatron totally knows him. He can read him like an open book! It's a bed time story.

Metatron is not one to disappoint. He flicks his tongue out and begins to lick the blood off. As he actually sticks the fingers into his mouth (gross) he targets Michael's as well. They are dirty as well after all. There is a dull throbbing pain from his other hand but he doesn't do anything about it.

He would have a retort about what he does think is going on in Michael's brain but his mouth is a bit occupied. Ha.]

[It's not a bedtime story nothing is bedtime stop.

Michael did not plan ahead for this circumstance, unfortunately, and he reacts on reflex -- yanking his hand away from Metatron's filthy mouth and slapping him sharply. Sorry if you bite your own hand, dearest. Although it's not the best slap in the world, because he still hasn't put much distance between them. It makes a nice sound, which is what counts.]

Don't be disgusting!

[It is, naturally, only disgusting when Michael doesn't authorize it.]

[That was the most predictable outcome out there. The only saving grace is that Metatron's mouth isn't filled with his own blood (yet). The bite still hurt though. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth - there is a growing red line where his teeth hit - and makes a flippant gesture.]

I'm sorry.

[Meanwhile, Metatron sways the held hands back and forth. He's moving them like a normal, sane couple might.]

[Metatron is slipping from him again - truthfully, Michael would rather have him wounded and hollow than flippant - and it twists unpleasantly at the core of him to watch. While Metatron waves their joined hands Michael has already sought after the other one again, angrily lacing their fingers together and pushing it down to the floor - or rather, wing on the floor. (See, the saliva was never the problem.)

It would make a pretty contrast, these pairs of hands, if Michael cared about that kind of thing.

He regards Metatron coldly, then sighs. There is no reason to stay here, except for all the obvious ones. His eyes shut as he bows his head even lower now, hair everywhere, his forehead resting against Metatron's. There is no reason to stay here.]

Why?

[Stop it. He just started to piece himself back together slightly. This seesaw of control is shitty when it's in Michael's favor. Metatron squirms again, like the uncomfortable child he is. With both hands held down he fidgets the newly held hand, anxiously refusing to hold it back even as he squeezes the other.

He can't look away. Not because he is bewitched or anything, but there is a face right next to his and everything else is hair and he could really use some personal space right now. His lips are pressed tightly together. There is no answer to that question, Michael.

Metatron shifts again, accompanied by an airy laugh. The dead eyed smile is back. He's ability to pretend is waning with these feeble escape attempts.

Why not, who knows, who cares?

He doesn't say anything though - nothing can be said - and finally settles for just closing his eyes. If I can't see it it goes away, right?]

[Sorry, Michael is an awful whirlwind of mixed messages at all times. Mixed messages and zero personal space.

His eyes remain closed; it becomes a concentrated effort when Metatron laughs like that, because Michael can easily picture the hollow look in his eyes and he does not want to see it, that reminder that he created the very thing that wants to ruin him. At the same time he wonders -- this time, would it be different? It has been thousands of years and Michael is still sure that one day, his favorite things will return to him.

One day. He will not surrender in the meantime.

The silence drags, and Michael does not move. Not even to crack an eyelid, to stare furiously down at Metatron and demand he say something, to threaten him into submission in some way. If that worked on Metatron he might, but Michael has not gotten this far by thinking all of his things work in the same way.

But all the same, he does not like being refused.]

Hindrance. Say something.

CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

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