OTA Debut

[benependente]

Juan woke up this morning knowing he was in the wrong. He remembered only flashes of the previous night; the drinks were varied and many, and the lines of white powder irresistible. He did remember, though, that there had been a very pretty woman at the party, and he knew that she had said ‘no’ at some point, and he recalled that he had paid very little mind to her resistance. Well, she had been wearing a very short skirt and had practically been drooling over Juan for the better part of the evening. Understandably, he thought she was just playing hard to get. They often were. So, he had followed her to the ladies room and joined her in a cubicle.

Miscalculation. She wasn’t playing, apparently. His eyes were still burning. Pepper spray. Bitch.

He also recalled her saying something about contacting the newspapers and telling the world about what kind of a bastard he really was. Bit of a flair for drama, the cunt. He remembered laughing at her resolve. Well, it was terribly funny.

Because, objectively, yes, Juan knew he was wrong. Respect for women, ‘no’ is ‘no’, all that talk. He got it. But that didn’t mean he felt particularly guilty about last night. Not at all. She was wearing the short skirt and practically asking him for it. The signals had been terribly mixed. A man couldn’t be blamed for that. So, no, he didn’t consider himself guilty of anything. And besides, it would blow over soon.

Soon, he knew, his dear brother would find him here, and tell him just how much in the wrong he was. Salt in his pepper-sprayed eyes/ Rub it in a little, as his brother always loved doing, before fixing the matter. Because after the sermon (his brother would have made a great priest), Cesare would go away and pay off whoever he needed to pay off to make sure the Borgia name was saved. He was dutiful like that.

For now Juan could enjoy the third cup of strong coffee of the morning in silence, wearing dark shades to prevent his eyes from hurting in the winter sun.

OTA

[whispersoflove]

It was not just the world of men that Anael liked on the physical plane. Sometimes, like today, he spent hours flying high up in the atmosphere, enjoying riding the winds he found, the ones he pushed on or calmed down. It was the sort of sensations one simply could not find in Heaven.

When he touched down, cloaked from the gaze of men, in a deserted London alley, he was riding that wonderful high. He shed his wings even as he became visible, a little frost still on his hair from his flight. His simple jacket was far from enough to keep a man warm in the current weather, but he did not even realise, and walked out into the streets with no specific goal in mind. Evening had fallen and he let his feet pick the path for him until a pub caught his eye.

He settled at the counter, the frost in his hair finally thawing in the warmth, and gave a friendly smile to the person beside him. "How are you doing tonight?" It sounded less like a line, and more like Anael truly cared about the answer.