Mizrah's Ladder Ch. 05

...but you can't help it. You need to know, so you crane your head to look into his eyes, tilting him gently so he is gazing at you; mistake, since you get distracted by the deep darkness of his pupils. You've only noticed for the first time how they're looking at you with...is that kindness? Interest beyond your presence in this bed?

"Why me, Yusuf? I asked you this before once, and you didn't really answer...I mean, you said it was to save me, but there are people in need of rescue all over this town. Am I something of a strategic asset to you, or...There is more to it, yes?"

You could handle the answer. Fate had a way of throwing you around, and no matter how battered, beaten, sick, abandoned or cheated you've been, you always get back up. You just keep swimming.

He pulls you against him, the muscled breastplate of his chest pressing against your back. His hand rests on your hip, and your head rests on his arm. "I'm guessing from the way you write, that you don't mind if I sound a bit..."

"What? You can say what you mean. I can take it." Your long, pretty fingers with their black-painted nails, trace gently along his forearm for his hand. Some men needed to be reassured that it was ok to be honest.

"You're stunning." His whisper against your jaw makes your lips part, gentle gasp involuntarily escaping. Stunning? "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Nay...you're like snow in May, Isabel." Quoting and abusing Shakespeare now?

"Did you just make that up?" You ask with even skepticism, bringing his hand to your chest, over your quickly beating heart.

"No I thought about it for a while, I was just looking for a good moment to use it." Your voices are barely louder than the whisper of your lips brushing his. "Do you want to know why I think you're stunning?"

"Of course I do, you smooth, saucy man." You've never really thought of yourself that way.

"I'll start with my favorite part." The backs of his fingernails drag gently up your cheek.

"Have you been told how beautiful your face is?" He whispers as his fingertips spread against your cheek - you can feel him smiling against your skin and can't help but smile in return. "You're a work of art...I mean it, like someone found your visage in ivory and brought it out. I couldn't imagine someone like you until I met you...such pretty cheekbones. I can tell when you're actually smiling and when you're pretending...know how?"

Why is this so tantalizing? Men had told you how pretty you were before, but there was a weight of giddy sincerity beneath rockerboy's confident exterior. "No...but I suspect you're going to tell me in a terribly charming way?"

"We got a winner." He touches the bridge of your straight nose affectionately. "When you're happy, your cheeks look like little apples. Cuz you blush easy...like now."

It isn't often that you find yourself speechless; stoic and gazing in silent standoff, sure, but your face felt even hotter than when you two were fucking, just moments before.

"You want me to stop?"

"No, no please...go on."

You know it's a game the both of you are playing - he wants to hear you say you want it as much as you want him to continue, but it's playful. Sweet and -oh God he's kissing and biting your neck.-

"I love this part baby..."

Baby? Ohh wow...

"I love how long your neck is, unscarred and smooth...and when I press my lips here," he whispers against where your throat and collarbone meet, "I can feel your pulse...practically taste your heart."

"Ffffuck, Yusuf...you like to just keep me...in this constant state of desire for you, don't you?"

"Of course I do...fuel for my fire, Isabel. Besides...I want you whenever I see you, and when I don't. Only fair, right?"

"Smooth, lover-boy...but. I didn't say stop." You fix him a coy, sweet little smile; your lips meet, and his voice is like satin against them.

"Your collarbones...they're sensitive, aren't they." He purrs against you, fingers traveling tantalizingly from the curve of your chest to your clavicle. He's not exactly wrong...the men you'd taken to bed before, they didn't understand how much you enjoyed being touched like this; not just your breasts or between your thighs, but the whole of your long, sleek form. He's doing well so far - your face, your neck, your collarbones...oh God you feel his teeth rasping gently against them.

"Ohh yes Yusuf...you know how to touch a woman, don't you."

"Maybe I do...maybe your body is like a musical instrument and I'm just playing a song I know, to the tune of your moans."

"That's so bad but it's so good," you laugh against him and turn with the flexibility of a steel cord to wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing your head against his chest with a happy sigh...you haven't sighed like this in months.

Those arms come around and pull you tightly to him, and god-damn...it is just a different experience to be with a man who is built this way. Your earlier relationships had been with men and women on the slender, almost skinny side while Mizrah's musculature puts him easily at 80 kilograms. You'd always heard that muscular guys were kinda...airheaded, not necessarily the sharpest tools in the box. He seemed different; no amount of good looks could excuse stupid but he had a sharp wit and, at the least, a way with words. You find your face resting against the cleft between his pectoral muscles; your heightened senses are carried away in the bouquet of his scent...sweat from sex; the ubiquitous rainy ozone of The City; the beating heart of the monster he'd torn apart and feasted upon with you. There's the unique cue of his masculine mark, and the overlay of leather, the particular scent of a backstage...a hint of shaving cream, though it doesn't look like he's taken a razor to that facial scrag.

"So...like I said earlier, you could have just asked me out instead of all this, even if what you're saying about the five hundred fifty five moons is a thing. But you made another one like you...why?"

"Persistent aren't you," Mizrah notes. His lips press against the top of your head gently, as if to assure you he's not irritated, the low vibrato of his chuckle a gentle sound in your ear. "Alright, fine...you saw how things are for me, getting ambushed like that - well it happens more than I'd like. Lana was arrogant...if she'd brought stronger Hissers - y'know, Cats - she might've gelded me like she'd threatened."

"So you're recruiting me as your bodyguard? I'm sorry to disappoint you but I'm not exactly the first person to throw down." You tip your head back to look up sweetly at him through your pretty, vanta black eyes.

"First of all," he began, pressing an index finger lightly against your poignant chin, "you got me just fine with that wrench...you're already a natural ambusher." This was true.

"Second," another finger touched your chin, and they walked up to pluck your red lip gently, prompting an involuntary smile, "I don't need a bodyguard, no...but someone to run with? Most definitely."

"You hardly know me beyond a one night stand and my stupid stories and this...how do you know I am up to this, or again...that I even wanted this, or -you- even, beyond a good fuck? I'm just saying, if you're going to...run with me, whatever that means, you must have really thought this through."

"I didn't," he admits, his tone serious and...maybe even carrying a note of self-reproach. You feel him start to pull away, but stop him with your hand on his shoulder, stroking your fingers reassuringly along his clavicle. He's easily made defensive...questioning his act puts him off balance. You can't help but wonder how old he is; younger than you? "I went off my intuition, and the ah...urgency of the situation." He knows you're going to ask, and his hands bring your head back against his chest. "It was getting tough to hunt out there, and I'd been alone for a long time...I lost everyone I ran with before."

This time you choose not to ask; the tightness in his voice says it all, that people he cared deeply for were somehow taken from him. Your instincts tell you to comfort him, and you scoot up against him to touch the tip of your nose lightly against his. Something is powerful and quiet about this moment as you place your palms lightly against his cheeks.

"I understand."

You do. You also have lost so much...loved ones, colleagues, friends, all of them temporal. There's no reason the man in your arms could be any different, especially given the violence of this new life.

You smell the saline; he isn't crying, holding back like a typical man might and if not for what he's made you he might have successfully obfuscated his own sorrow.

You, of course, never cry...can you even remember the last time you did? It'd always been your burden to allow others to shed tears upon your shoulder, and you're patiently waiting...but they don't come, not from Yusuf, who makes himself smile at you. It'd be convincing if you were anyone less perceptive.

"It's alright. We got time, and for now we got each other, and that's pretty rad, isn't it?"

"Yes...it is." You kiss his lips, ruminating over his choice of words, at his apparent sensitivity and emotions boiling beneath the surface...but no weird vibes, like he was fighting down an outburst, and you'd been with men who had that problem and it wasn't as if you enjoyed constantly ending up as your partners' therapists...speaking of which.

"So...and last question, I promise -"

"Ask as many as you need, even if they're tough. I can take it."

Alright...sure. "What is this? You, me, this thing we're doing...I wouldn't normally push but I don't got much for reference here."

His answer surprises you. He sits up against the pillows and you stir, watching him with curiosity as he cracks open another water bottle, offering it your way. "I got an idea. Let's go out...I'll do show instead of tell, then you can decide what you want us to be."

Hm. Alright that sounded reasonable in some weird way. You watch as he pulls his sky blue boxer shorts up and note that they are printed with little viking boats as he talks. "I got my clothes a bit shredded by Lana's little friend, so let's stop by my place for me to pick up something fresh."

"Taking me to your place now. Sure...I need to shower though, as much as I enjoy feeling you inside and smelling you all over me." You swing your long legs over the bed and rise, naked and pale and willowy, his seed still flowing down your thigh. The sensation...it feels really good, actually, and as you stride past you can't help but trail your fingers along the waistband of his shorts suggestively. You smile at him over your shoulder as you leave the door to the bathroom cracked open.

The shower water cascades warmly down your chest, rinsing away the sweat and salt...there's some sort of generic brand motel soap that reminds you of spring and hand moisturizer.

His answers hadn't been entirely satisfying...like he was telling the truth, but leaving something out; you just felt it in your bones. It doesn't feel malicious or like he's trying to lead you into something since he could have closed the jaws of some trap around you long ago...then again you don't know what lies in store, and do you really want to be attached to him? You barely know the guy, and even though he was awfully sweet to you before he still inflicted this Curse upon you, without asking if you wanted it...then again, he's a monster. So are you.

It doesn't shake you much, and in a lot of ways the life you'd known was numb and empty, like a glass tipped over and cracked. Ever since your ex-girlfriend disappeared with most of your savings, leaving you with debt, an apartment you couldn't afford and a cold bed. The money, the lies, you could handle that...but the abandonment, the draining, heavy sadness that had sat upon your shoulders for a whole year...

Yusuf, who turned out to be the anonymous, online friend who'd read and eagerly commented on the romance novella you'd been posting for months, had probably inferred a lot about who you were beyond your conversations in Messenger...you'd poured yourself into that story, and he was totally right about you superimposing yourself and your desires on the main characters. On the one hand it was unsettling that he'd tracked you, followed you to a nightclub, and ended up having sex with you over and over...on the other hand, he'd fucked you masterfully and consensually, and he'd even been really...kind. Words were just words, but the way he'd talked about your body before still echoed sweetly in your mind. Were you this starved for attention?

You can hear him singing in the other room.

You're in the process of pulling up your thick, black mane of wavy hair to keep it from getting wet when you pause to listen. It's not the metal roar you remember, it's...low and almost mournful, velvety and flowing like smoke in a Kasbah.

"At li hachesed ve'at li bait,"

"Ve'at shochenet belibi,"

"At li hasheket, itach ze shnayim,"

"Ve'at yoshevet bekirbi,"

"Mikol halevatim, bechol hashinuim ani nish'ar itach,"

"Bechol hanigunim, bechol hakivunim ani nish'ar shelach..."

The melodious, gentle thrum of his voice is just outside your door now. You don't care that water is dripping down your smooth, ivory body to the floor; you find yourself drawn to his song, and, your hair falling like a curtain of night over your shoulder, you slide your palm down the doorframe, twist the knob and pull it open for him.

His eyes, like a moonless night, reflect your own obsidian gaze all the way to the shower, following you into the spray of hot water and steam. You open your arms to him, then your lips, then your thighs...unable to resist his charm.

Round eight is also a slow, affectionate experience...you're surprised, not just at his sheer appetite for sex, but the comfort and ease with which you...well...open to him.

Afterwards, you're enjoying the feeling of his back under your soapy fingers; the definition of lateralis and trapezius, of latissimus and broad rhomboid (you'd done pretty well in human bio) slicks like valleys and crags beneath your sudsy fingertips. "That's amazing...I've never let anyone touch my back like that..." and you can't help but wonder why. The steamy glass walls of the motel shower carry his gaze over his shoulder, and you smile mischievously at him and loop an arm around his upper belly, dragging your nails up and down the cut of his abs. "You're not from here either, are you."

"Hah...what gave it away lover? The accent, or lack of jaundice?"

The both of you chuckle at the joke made at The City's expense. You shake your head and press your forehead against his shoulder, smiling as you reach down and run your palm over his rock-hard buttock. No...I'm not from this place. I doubt you've heard of where I'm from.

"Ouch. Bet you think that's just cuz I'm American." He's grinning at you, fingers sliding over the back of your hand, guiding it's ascent and descent.

"It's a joke we make about you guys back home, so yes."

"Try me. Go ahead." He turns around in your embrace, arms behind his head as he leans against the shower wall.

"Hmm okay...Mytilene."

His hand pauses. Ah...yep, you got him. Maybe he's not as smart as you thought but it was a pretty hard question -

"It's on a Greek Island. In the Aegean, close to Turkey."

You don't say anything for a moment, and instead look at him suspiciously, puzzling how he either cheated, or...

"How did you know that? Most Europeans don't know where that is. You're using some trick aren't you." You tap his chest twice with your index fingernail, cockeyed little smile in imitation of his.

"The trick...is Take Over The World Two," he responds smoothly.

What? "What is this? You speak like I should know or like you're going to lay it on me."

"It's a feudalism simulator."

"A feudalism simulator, Yusuf."

"Yes. You spend a lot of time looking at a map of Europe, and I always conquered Greece out of ancestral spite."

"Spite? What ancestral spite could you have against us yankee boy? Unless...Mizrah...ohh, you're - "

"Persian. Yep."

Hah. Okay. "That's incredibly silly, but congratulations. You're the first barbarian to know where Mytilene is."

"I'm a regular noble savage baby," he jokes and you both laugh in the stream of hot water. He's no idiot at least...perhaps somewhat callow, but at least you don't have to slow your speech or use smaller words.

The two of you end up spending another half hour in the shower, your skin pruning up as your conversation drifts toward music...no surprise, given his chosen profession and affectation. His mother was the first to put a pair of headphones on his head to listen to her Ramones and Dead Kennedys albums, and later on a guitar in his hands against dad's wishes. He's all over the punk and alternative spectrum, but his heart and soul rests in metal. Iron Maiden...Mötorhead...Dimmu Borgir, Slayer, he saw a lot of them live with his mom back in the day.

You'd seen a lot of live music yourself, and actually had worked for a while as a coordinator for some eclectic local shows, back when the rent was still low enough that you could get away with that. It was a wild time of your youth, things had worked with the girl you don't feel like mentioning, and you express a longing to go back to times like those.

"So why don't you? You hate working at that shitty bank."

"Well because, if I ever want to own a home I need the income, and it isn't like anything is getting cheaper."

"If money wasn't an issue, is it something you'd want to do?" His fingers drift up your neck to cup your soft cheek, and you lean into it, sighing heavily with desire.

"Of course. I loved it...music is a passion dear to me Mizrah."

"Why?"

You can't help but ask, and you hear him turning off the shower spigot. There's a big, devious grin writ across his handsome face as he pulls a towel off the rack, settling it around your shoulders and arms.

"I want to show you something..."

The two of you dressed yourselves haphazardly, finding it difficult to keep your hands off the other but when you'd successfully pulled your sweat-and-blood stained work clothes back on, you found Mizrah fishing around in his wallet. He calls you to follow him to a First City Bank ATM - the chic steel-and-glass monstrosity, cloistered in the brick wall between two abandoned storefronts, chirps obnoxiously at your approach. "Check this out babe."

You watch skeptically as he opens up his wallet...and instead of going for his UC-Credit Union card, he takes out a wax-paper wrapped wafer of silicon. Carefully peeling it open, you see that it's essentially a mess of wires, copper and...it looks like he's painted spidery symbols over the green circuit board.

"Presto majesto," he smirks as he shoves it roughly into the card holder, and the ATM immediately howls in agony. The camera lens turns to stone and then falls out of its holder with a heavy thud, and the screen rattles, strange letters of ill omen scrolling across the glass.

"Easy money." He holds a hand out as the cash dispenser begins to disgorge $20s, fluttering against his palm. "Help me with this," he entreats, handing you wads of cash.

Impossible. Ridiculous. "We're going to get caught," you state flatly because of course you are - this feels even more surreal than devouring that cat-man.

"Are not, and I haven't yet, cuz that little thing damns and corrupts all information associated with this moment, I was careful about that...here we go, incoming."

You find more wads of cash pressed into your hands and impulsively begin to organize them into stacks, checking nervously over your shoulder.