Author's note: I wrote yet another ficlet in this Velkan/Marishka series. Because I love them. And I'm very into them right now. So, here it is. Reviews are greatly appreciated and loved.

Disclaimer: I do not own this. I am making no profit. So no suing me, ok? Savvy? Got it? Good. Cause I'm poor.


It was almost dusk. Almost dusk, and Velkan was pacing. Pacing the whole of his room, pacing a pathway into his floor. Pacing with fear, pacing with dread, pacing with apprehension, pacing with anxiousness, pacing with excitement. Pacing to kill the time, pacing to make it drag along.

He wanted dawn already, and he wanted dusk to hurry and bring him an endless night.

She was on her way. She was waking, stretching, her lithe, scantily clad body languidly moving to flex her muscles and limbs, every movement elegant and seductive and insidious. The very thought of her, of what she was probably doing, it all made him tighten, harden, fist clenching as he paused his pacing to groan in frustration.

He longed to feel her again, even while he tried to erase every memory of her from his mind. If he wanted to, he could go to another room, one without windows and a door he could lock and block. He could take the precautions.

He could sleep with a stake beneath his pillow, fingers wrapped around the weapon, waiting for her to lie above him, heart perfectly exposed.

But Velkan couldn't kill Marishka. He was incapable of it. It wasn't like he hadn't tried. He had. Many times. And every time, he hadn't been able to finish the job. Every time, he had dropped it and grabbed her, pulling her down and letting himself go.

Oh, he had impaled her alright. He had thrust himself into with the force he had wanted to use to kill her. Every thrust he knew it should have been the stake going through her heart, not himself entering her and filling her.

He just couldn't kill her. He wanted to. He wanted to free himself. He wanted it to end. But he couldn't bring himself to finish it, to stop it. He simply let himself drown in her, let her choke him, suffocate him, squeezing the life out of him just as her body would squeeze the pleasure out of him when he came.

She was killing him slowly. Such a beautiful, sinful way to die, it was. It was pleasure and it was pain, it was like a lullaby being sung as poison clouded your mind and pulled you peacefully into sleep. It was passion - hate and love both possessed it, and it blurred the line between the two.

She was smothering him with her beautiful sin as he held her with his tainted innocence.

And she wasn't even there yet.