Work Header

It's Better than Sex, Really

Work Text:

It's Better than Sex, Really

Fandom: The Prophecy (movie)

Written for: toxictattoo in the New Year Resolutions 2006 Challenge

by Truth

"I remember the first war."

"Of course you do, Simon." Gabriel liked to address people's thoughts as opposed to their words. Smug, self-righteous bastard. "We all do. We were all there, after all. Or in your self-flagellation have you decided that somehow you need to carry the suffering of us all? The cross... it's not a good look for you."

He also talks too much. I hate that about him.

"Gabriel...." Disappointment and gentle remonstration and the beginnings of something like fear.

I hate Simon too, of course... but mainly because he's everything I used to be. I'll spare you the rest of their conversation and what came after. Angels don't have sex, but the things that Gabriel did to Simon were as close as made no difference.

... and not in that cutesy, romantic `making love' kind of way, either.

Gabriel likes to reach right into your soul and twist. Of course, angels don't have souls, so what he did to Simon was more like digging his talons, black as the soul he doesn't have, directly into Simon's being - the being that God endowed him with on the day he wasn't born.

Simon's pretty when he writhes.

I'll always regret that he got away. The things I could have done to Simon.... It'd send chills right through me if I were into that sort of thing. That's Gabriel's idiom, however, ranking right up there with his habit of terrorizing humanity. God should never have let him out to play at Sodom and Gomorrah. He's never been the same.

Gabriel's never pretty, even when he writhes - even when he screams. He's still my favorite toy, however, and I keep him in a special box and only take him out on important occasions. Of course, in Hell, I make the rules and if I decide that every day is my birthday, than thus it shall be.

The fact that I wasn't actually born simply makes it that much more deliciously ironic.

Gabriel doesn't know what defeat is, despite my best efforts to teach him exactly how it works. Something in his nature, I suppose. God's purpose, embodied in somewhat disturbing flesh, to bring death and vengeance to humanity....

I told Him it was a bad idea at the time, but I wasn't asked to leave Heaven because I was good with people.

I shouldn't complain. Gabriel's mine now, after all, and I've never had quite such a resilient toy. He's not Michael, of course, and how I long to have that one beneath my hands.... I would have settled for Simon, however, sweet and devout and longing.

I want him so much because I can't have him, of course. He would have come apart in my hands, wanting to save me, wanting me to be what I used to be... unable even to hate me as I tore him apart.

Simon is what we were all meant to be and it can be summed up in one word.


Simon is beautiful and, most importantly from my point of view, he died in a state of Grace.

I fucking hate that.

I wanted Simon. I wanted him because I couldn't have him and because Gabriel had. I would have given a great deal to have held him in front of Gabriel, to have greeted him with blood on my lips and up to my elbows and Simon, sweet Simon, unprotesting and helpless and mine... and not because Gabriel loved Simon, no. That affection was a one-way street. No, because Gabriel is a jealous bastard and can't stand having other people handle his possessions.

Too bad he never truly understood that he never had Simon. Simon was God's, as we all once were. It's a pity, really.

He's learning that now, among other lessons, but it's a slow, laborious process. There's a certain beauty in the darkness of our blood and the white of bone, the whistle of air forced through holes never meant to bear it. Sweet, sweet agony - and it will go on for as long as it continues to amuse me, and I'm easily amused when I want to be. Gabriel is strong, one of the strongest, and for all his games with death, he can't bring his own.

There is no escape from me.

Well, there is, but it's well beyond Gabriel's reach now.

Simon, sweet Simon, is gone. Angels don't go to Heaven. They don't usually go to Hell, either. Angels don't die - they come to an end. Simon, with his soft hair and his low voice that always seemed on the verge of whispering something that would put it all into perspective... gone as if he'd never been. Gabriel did that, and I may never forgive him for it.

As long as Simon was alive, I'd still had a chance to make him mine. Gabriel took that from me and he'll continue to pay for it until I've tired of the game.

... have I mentioned that I'm easily amused?

Gabriel is a prize in his own right. Imagine the beauty of it, the very creature whose trumpet was to sound the very literal trump of doom, screaming.... It has a cosmic beauty to it, really. I've always loved the sound of his voice. It hasn't the low, sweet promise of Simon's, but it has a sharp, bitter twist, like a fine wine that's been left in the bottle almost, almost too long.


The best part of all this? Really, it's enough to make you weep - `you' in this case, being defined as the average talking monkey. The best part is that I didn't really have to do anything to get him. Gabriel gave himself to me and that's a beautiful, beautiful thing that you'd have to be me to truly appreciate.

It's better than sex, really.

Not that I'd know. Procreation is something that the man upstairs really dislikes when it comes to angels. Just ask Noah and the other survivors. No... Angels don't have sex.

Instead, we have hate.

I wanted Simon, but I didn't love him. Gabriel did, in a sick, possessive way.... Simon loved us both but love was a part of what he was, as natural to him as breathing is to the talking monkeys. Love is the default state, something that requires no thought or choice or effort.

Hate, real hate, the kind that burns in your gut and crawls up the back of your throat to steal your breath until there's nothing else in the world... that sort of thing takes work.

Gabriel hates me, not as much as he hates the talking monkeys, but there's always hope. I can taste it on his skin and in the sluggish flow of his blood. Someday, he'll give in to that hate completely.

... and on that day, he'll truly be mine.

Please post a comment on this story.

Read posted comments.