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Wherein the Irreplacable Is Replaced

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In these times there still existed a beautiful temple, bracketed by roses and the sea. A temple crafted with care and with love, whose best efforts couldn’t hope to match the beauty of him whom it was built for.

Then again, could any lesser being really inspire such a temple?

These were thoughts on the Dracon’s mind when entering those hallowed halls, but they were not the only ones. It had been far too long since the Dracon had basked in presence of the angel. They feared that it was too late. They missed him.


A man walked into Michael’s temple, wearing his lover’s face.

He walked in the same manner as the Dracon, but it was not him. A mouth smiled at him, and it melted into a smile wholly unlike the one he remembered.

It was amazing, how thoroughly the Cainite’s powers could transform the body and the mind, but… Michael could not decide if the differences were due to a different soul or the mere fact that none, living or dead, would ever know the Dracon the way he had. Perhaps it did not matter.

He folded the letter from Symeon away, disregarding the lies within it for the kernel of care and truth. He did not yet know who this was, but he knew that he missed the Dracon yet, and that he would die before he ever saw him again.

“My angel,” the doppelganger said.

[ Hello. ] Michael said back, mind to mind. Perhaps his gift was enraptured by his divine beauty as Michael dove into his mind, searching.

He saw within him the joy that enraptured the conscious part of this “Dracon” wholly, and underneath that, the confusion and fear of a job that could never be completely finished. Michael beckoned him forward, and let his smile brighten, the divine light gleam more wholly, to ease this being into his arms as he made his way into his soul.

By the time the offering made its way into his arms, Michael had discovered the true name of this gift.


Another wave of fondness buried the initial one, the one he’d felt simply at seeing such a familiar face. It sounded like his own name. Mycahel. Though Myca was not an angel, not yet.

He did not know whether Myca had the potential, yet. Myca trembled in his arms, buried in an ecstasy he had never known.

Perhaps in one way, at least, Michael could assuage his regrets. He buried his face in Myca’s neck. Myca clutched Michael’s back, beset by feelings and thoughts those who knew the Cainites often had. He who was not the Dracon trembled, but did not have the strength to pull away. Even the Dracon rarely had the strength, even when the Dream had waned for him.

[ Come with Me. ] Michael thought, and when he pulled away, Myca followed with the unquestioning obedience of awe.


“Can you,” the Dracon said, and stopped. Their heart was in their throat, and their head was faint. They felt so intensely they feared they might pass out.

[ I’ll leave my robe on. ] Michael was amused, and it felt crueler, somehow, in their mind, than it did when Michael looked down with that divine smile, radiating light from every pore.

“Thank you.” The Dracon hadn’t known how to say it. How to communicate the fear that exposure to Michael in his full glory would destroy as surely as the sun’s rays would.

[I want to see you.] Michael’s beautiful hand found the Dracon’s shoulders, thumbing at the shirt across them while the other hand dove deeper, to the skin of a pale hip.

[I want to taste you.] Michael said, and the Dracon wasn’t sure whether to cock their head up or down, whether he should taste Michael’s mouth or let him drink the blood of their bond.

Michael decided without the formality of asking. The warm hand that had toyed with the Dracon’s robe now bracketed a non-existent pulse, a too-existent jaw. He kissed them.

The Dracon’s body was cold despite the heat, cold despite the light, cold cold cold, but then their angel bit his tongue, bit theirs, let the essence dribble between them, tempting and all consuming.

The Dracon felt the heat envelop them, warmth finally finding every pore, terrifying love overwhelming terrifying awe, if only for the moment.

Where Michael should have been ivory, there was gold, and where his body should have absorbed the light, it radiated it.

Surely this was right.


[ You’re not ready. ]

Michael saw it and knew it, and saw that Myca only became aware of it then, abruptly, so consumed by the light he could not even sense the planes of his own face or feel the cold of his own body.

Myca didn’t know why he was not ready for their coupling, for Gregorius’ touch could do that much, could touch that deeply. But no more than that. It would fall to Michael to take it further, and that was a burden the Angel gladly claimed.

He saw the embarrassment on Myca’s face, the way he wondered at why his flesh had not kindled with the heat of their coupling as it had so many times before.

[ I’ll take it in hand. ] Michael said, and his clever hands, awash in iridescence, found the place where Myca’s body had yet to stir, despite the blood flushing his undead body.

[ Rise. ] Michael said, and poured his power into Myca’s body like a blessing, letting the desire to please the Patriarch go from simply thought to an unbending force, watching as his disobedient dick roused.

Michael would mold this offering, and when he was done something greater than there was before would rise.

“You can do that?” Myca said, and Michael’s eyes drifted up to see those familiar-unfamiliar eyes, to watch as the power of speech left Myca.

[I can do many things,] Michael said, [and so can we.]


Like this, twined together, Michael could see Myca’s mind more clearly than ever, soul to soul, though Myca himself had not the power to see within. That was of little importance, for Michael could simply tell him what he ought to know.

And Michael could likewise discover what he wanted to know, which was that Myca was so similar to the Dracon it sent a tremor through his heart, made him want to hold him close.

He was already so close, sheathed in his new lover, but he had not the power to make them truly one flesh, like perhaps the Dracon himself could have. But then Michael wouldn’t have been Michael, and Myca would die on the angel’s final night. It was truly for the best.

“You’re in very deep,” Myca said, with an almost-human flush, and Michael hummed against the back of his neck.

[I will go deeper, soon.]

“Oh,” Myca said, and went oh as Michael buried his teeth in Myca’s throat, Embraced him with the tender touch of an angel and the coarser lust of the body.

This was a great comfort, in his final nights.

He would thank Symeon, and Gregorius, and Myca as well. For Myca, he had already decided, would carry on his Dream everlasting.