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Mi Diablo

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Azazel doesn't acknowledge him outside of sex. Well, that's a lie, he's acknowledged, treated like a teammate, maybe even whatever Azazel considers a friend, but he's not acknowledged. There's no secretive touches, no half-looks, no shared smiles. There's absolutely nothing, like what happens between them in dark corners and hotel room beds is a completely isolated thing. It's not what Janos wants, not even close.

It drives him mad sometimes, how Azazel can be so completely and unexpectedly tender when they're naked and between hotel room sheets, but so indifferent clothed, in daylight. Maybe if he was harsh, if he showed no care for Janos' comfort, it would be easier to understand. But he cannot reconcile the man who presses the sweetest of kisses to his spine, with an arm around his waist that only holds, never confines, while driving into him so gently, with the man who looks at him over breakfast with empty eyes. He can take one or the other, but he is finding he cannot live with both and be content. Either he has the Azazel he loves all the time, or he has nothing.

So when Azazel comes to him one night in a puff of smoke, like he has so many nights before, he does not come to the Janos who welcomes him.

Janos does not turn when he hears the crack of displaced air. The surprise wore off long ago. Neither does he relax into the arms that encircle him, nor soften at the slide of a demon tail up his leg. There is a purr of Russian in his ear, something that Azazel calls him when they are alone, but still, he does not relax, does not turn warm and pliant.

“Something is wrong?” Janos closes his hands around Azazel's wrists and pushes, an unmistakable gesture that Azazel does not pretend to misunderstand. He lets go, but does not back away. Instead there is breath against the back of his neck, and the brush of fingers, moving his hair aside so that Azazel can press his lips to skin. “Tell me мой шторм, what troubles you?”

“That is unnecessary.” English is the only way they can communicate, and Janos is displeased at the moment with it. He knows what he wants to say, but he is unsure of the words, and right now, he needs to be sure his meaning is carried. “Sex does not require kissing.” It is less elegantly phrased than what it could have been, but it is the best he can do. Azazel freezes against him, and the questing fingers and mouth withdraw.

“You do not want to be kissed?” His English is better, and perhaps he is thinking that Janos has mixed something up. Perhaps he is remembering how eagerly Janos' mouth has opened under his in the past, how Janos will pull him down by the back of his neck and bring their mouths together right when Azazel is so far in him they feel like one. Or maybe he is merely annoyed that Janos is not already naked for him, spreading his legs like he has every night before with no argument.

“Not by you.” He says. He can feel, without looking, how Azazel stiffens, how he has hit a nerve. “Lovers kiss. We are not lovers. We fuck.” He is almost positive that he has used the correct word. However, perhaps he should have thought better of it, because there is a sharp pain between his shoulder blades suddenly, then a wrenching in his arm as Azazel shoves him against the wall and turns him around.

Janos is afraid. It hits him like lightning as Azazel stares at him, that the sickening curling in his stomach is fear, and that it is justified. Azazel sees it too, and his expression turns into something terrible, something that puts Janos in mind of church, and hellfire. He could, he thinks, escape, perhaps, except that Azazel has always beaten him in training sessions. Every single time. And right now, he is so very afraid that if he makes the first move, it will not be like practice, when the blade stops a hairs breadth from his skin.

“We will not kiss then.” Janos' heartbeat does not slow to anything normal, but it does calm somewhat, at these words, though there is still something in Azazel's face that is giving him pause. “Undress.” He has already begin on his own clothes, forceful at the buttons. Janos is somewhat less enthusiastic, but then, the last time, Azazel had teased him out of each piece with eager hands and tail. This method has no passion to it, and he feels the loss.

His shirt undone and off, he undoes the button of his trousers, and slides them off, only to have Azazel push him to the wall. He braces his hands awkwardly, confused about what to expect, as his toes curl into the floor. Azazel is still clothed completely, his shirt only opened, so there is the press of fabric against Janos' back and not skin.

He is not aroused.

The first penetration is cold, the lotion on Azazel's fingers doing little to relax him. The second actively hurts, and he flinches, pulling away. The third is impossible, and he cries out in his discomfort. Azazel withdraws completely, and again, Janos' back meets the wall.

“What do you want of me? I do not understand! You do not want this, but you cannot bear to make love with a demon! You were able to hide your disgust so well before, but now you will not even let me have part of you! Tell me what you want of me!”

Janos understands now how his actions appeared to Azazel, how deeply he had cut him. “Oh my love, no.” He cups Azazel's face in his hands. “Your face would never make me recoil. I love everything about your face, your body. Only the ignorant would call you hell spawn. I have loved you from the first day.”

“I do not understand.” Azazel says, his voice breaking. So Janos does something he knows Azazel will understand: He kisses him. He kisses him like he's always kissed him, like it's as necessary as breathing, like Azazel is the only man he'll ever want to kiss for the rest of his life.

Azazel presses him to the wall in his renewed eagerness, Janos' arms sliding around his shoulders to keep him there, his warmth to Janos' nakedness. He slides a leg up Azazel's, wrapping it around him, the tail looping around his thigh to hold him there. Azazel groans against him, and pushes him up the wall so that Janos can wrap both of his legs around his waist, can rock against him, but not stop kissing, not for a moment. Azazel says something in Russian, something rough and starved-sounding.

“English,” Janos gasps, as he pulls away and meets Azazel's eyes.

“I will take you so many times tonight you will not remember any other,” He swore, and there was a crack of smoke, and the bed underneath them. Azazel was naked, his clothes still in a heap on the floor by the wall. “My hands alone, my mouth, my name, you will only remember this, only me,” His hips were moving against Janos', but it wasn't enough, would never be enough, “I was so wary of touching you outside of this, outside of now, too afraid you would not want me, but no, now, now you will be most fortunate if I do not decide to have you at every moment of the day,” Janos cries out when his arms are suddenly empty, but only for the moment it has taken for Azazel to retrieve the lotion.

Please,” Janos begs, arching into his hands, “Anywhere you want me, you have me, I swear, I have loved you so long, loved your smile, your touch, your mind, please, please do not stop touching me,” His pleas are nothing though, because Azazel stops, wickedness in his face.

“English,” He reminds him. Janos stares up at him, at his demonic smile, and wonders what the great artists found so beautiful about the angels.

“I love you,” He says, in English. It is very final sounding in English, so different from the musical quality of his own tongue, not as meaningful to him. “I love you.” He says again, properly, and the sound is better, is right. “I want you,” He says, in English, keeps their eyes locked, tries to convey to Azazel what he is teaching him. “I want you.” Azazel comes forward, eyes sliding halfway closed, until lips are whispering over his, barely touching. “If you are a devil, then you are my devil, mine alone, and I will gladly reign in their Hell if it means I reign beside you.” It is exactly right, exactly what he wants to say, and he almost preens with pride. “My devil,” He repeats, so Azazel knows it.

“Yours,” He confirms, and kisses him, a promise.

Azazel slides inside of him, and they are one, moving together, as Azazel murmurs in Russian, voice low and sweet. Janos holds on, and cries out when Azazel starts driving him over the edge, calls out his name when he breaks at last. By their third time, he has no voice left.

He holds on afterwards too, but when he wakes, he is alone. He is disappointed, so much so that he wants to cry, because he had thought, had stupidly assumed, that the night before had meant things were changed. Stupid, stupid, he curses himself. He says something pretty and you spread your legs again like a good little whore.

He washes and dresses stiffly and sorely, with bitterness in his mouth.

The smell of smoke fills the room, and Azazel is there, at his back, arms wrapping around him tight, unshaven cheek pressed to his neck. He reeks of their sex and unknown blood, his face tired in the mirror. “Emma wishes for us to know that our activities give her headache,” He murmurs, accent thick with weariness, into Janos' shoulder. “She is the one who rouses me from bed at ungodly hours, no one tell her to go snooping in my head.”

“She called you?”

“Why else would I leave warm bed, warm lover?” He says the word cautiously, and seems to understand with a look what Janos had thought when he'd woken alone. “Would rather have woken beside you, made love to you in our bed, then the shower.” His arms loosen, as though he is nervous.

“You still need the shower.” Janos offers, and pulls his hands back. “You smell like death, my devil.”