The Legend of the Pervy Archangel
Why did every girl he meet have to be capable of smacking him hard enough to make his head spin? Was there something about the female species that just made them insanely strong when angered? Maybe all members of the fairer sex had The Hulk gene or something.
Michael rubbed his red and swollen cheek as he walked down the street, following the girl dressed in black. Why was he following her? Because he didn't have anything else to do. He didn't know his current location; he knew nothing about the city he found himself, nor even the country he found himself in.
He suspected Guatemala, but couldn't be sure.
Either way, because he had nowhere to go and didn't know anyone on Earth, he followed the girl.
Besides, she had a really nice butt.
His bare feet padded along the strange gray path. The substance felt cold on his skin, but he tried to ignore that in favor of staring after the girl, his gaze moving with the sway of her hips. Oh, yes. God had truly blessed this young woman with a lovely rear. Small and shapely and tight. She could have given Gabriel a run for her money in the booty department.
Which was good, because she had nothing going on her chest.
After staring at her backside for just a bit longer, Michael then observed the three-quarters profile he saw of her face. She looked kind of angry. Actually, scratch that. She seemed pissed. Her now sandaled feet stomped along the ground with harsh, heavy thuds. Her hands, clenched into tight fists, were shaking as she swung them back and forth in jerky, robotic movements. Michael imagined that, should she turn around, her teeth would be grit into a fierce snarl and her eyes narrowed into angry slits.
Women who were angry usually looked like that.
As they continued moving, him several meters behind her, she stopped, quite suddenly, and turned around, glaring.
Michael quickly hid behind the corner of a building. The girl frowned, her brows furrowing. She muttered something under his breath (he didn't hear what she said, being too far away and everything), then turned around and began stomping off again.
He followed her again.
Several more seconds passed before she spun around again. This time, Michael hid behind a large trashcan. It absolutely reeked, smelling worse than that one time Raphael had gotten devil guts on his toga and didn't wash it for two whole months. That had been tough to deal with, and the smell behind that trash can put it to shame.
But he persevered, waiting until the girl had turned around before moving out from behind it.
The girl whirled around again. Michael froze where he stood, his eyes wide.
“You! Pervert!” She pointed at him. Why did every girl have to call him a pervert? “I don't know who the hell you think you are, but stop following me!”
“I'm not following you,” Michael said, “and please don't say hell. That is not the kind of place you should be talking about.”
Confusion flickered across her face. It only lasted for a moment before she scowled. “Who are you, my mother? I can say whatever the hell I want, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me!”
“Please don't swear either. It's not very tasteful.”
“Like I care about being tasteful!” She snapped. “Just stop following me!”
“Like I said, I am not following you.”
“Oh, yeah?” She looked at him with narrowed, challenging eyes. “Then what were you doing?”
“Yes, walking.” Michael nodded. “I was walking along this, um, place, and we just happened to be going the same direction.”
She stared at him for several seconds, incredulous. The seconds passed and she snapped at him again. “That's called following me, genius! You know I could get you arrested for stalking? Keep following me and I'll call the police!”
She whirled around again and stalked off. Michael watched her for several seconds, then hurried to catch up. Since she knew he was following her, there didn't seem to be much point in staying several feet behind her.
“I thought I told you to stop following me,” she growled.
“And I already said I'm not following you. We simply happen to be walking in the same direction.”
“That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard. Now get lost before I press charges for sexual harassment!”
“You're an awfully angry young lady, aren't you?”
When it became apparent to the girl that Michael wouldn't be leaving her alone any time soon, she sped up. So did Michael. She began to move faster. He kept pace. At some point, they began running neck and neck down the sidewalk, passing several people along the way. Narrowing her eyes, the girl that he had taken to following decided to play dirty.
She stuck out her leg and tripped him, causing Michael to fall face first onto the walkway. He didn't know what this stuff was made of, but it didn't yield a bit when he crashed into it. If anything, his face was what yielded.
Prying himself off the pathway, Michael pressed a hand to his bleeding nose and winced. Broken. With a minor grunt, he cracked it back into place, wiping the blood off on his hand and smearing it on the ground. He then looked around, only to see that the girl was gone.
He sighed. Great. Now he had to track her down. How troublesome.
After running for what had to have been half an hour at the very least, Alice found her back pressed against the wall of a small convenient store. Sweat ran down her forehead. Her chest heaved with each breath she took, her lungs begging for oxygen. Her legs, too, were asking that she not move and simply let them take a moment to regain their strength. They felt like jelly.
Alice was not a very active girl. She didn't do athletics. Cheerleading, soccer, track, swim, whatever, they weren't her thing. She hated any kind of activity that involved sweating.
It was just another reason to hate that man who'd fallen on her and so shamelessly groped her breasts.
In spite of herself, a blush sprang to her cheeks at the remembrance of what happened on the beach several minutes ago. Her hands absently went up to her chest, cupping them.
That had been the first time anyone aside from herself had ever touched her there. Alice had no experience with boys. None of the ones she would consider wanted to touch her, and while she might dress like a Goth, the dudes wearing Gothic clothing in this city were all disgusting and raunchy.
At least the man who'd groped her was handsome, beautiful even. His brown hair, long and silky, shimmering more radiantly than a vampire wearing too much sunblock, framing a lightly tanned face with eyes of burnished steel. And his hands, large, masculine hands that contrasted so completely with his feminine features, but felt so warm and soft...
“No! Stop thinking about him, Alice! He's nothing but a goddamn pervert! He was groping your chest!”
Alice shook her head in anger! Yes, anger! She couldn't possibly be embarrassed. And her face certainly hadn't turned red because she was thinking about his brawny, rugged hands caressing her...
Okay, so maybe, she was thinking about him and his masculine hands. Just a bit. But it was only because they were so manly! Which sounded all kinds of wrong in that context and not at all what she meant! She only wanted to convey that they didn't suit such a pretty boy face, nothing more!
She pulled at her hair. Why oh why was she still thinking about this?
“What are you doing?” a voice asked.
Alice stopped. Her heart froze in her chest. Turning her head, the sight that greeted her brought with it only an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“You,” she whispered, her voice harsh even to her own ears. “How did you find me?”
“You left a trail of people staring after you,” the perverted man who had groped her said.
“Oh...” Alice, unable to muster anymore strength, dropped down to her hands and knees. Her legs shook, and so, too, did the rest of her body. Not from terror or dread. Despite this person being a complete lecher, she didn't have any fear of the man. What she felt right then could have only been adequately described as exhaustion and resignation. She'd run as far and hard as she could, and he still caught up with her.
“Seriously, though, what's wrong?” he asked again.
She looked up. The man, the pervert, stood before her. She had to blink several times because spots formed in her eyes. He stood against the sun, light peering around him, giving a strange sort of halo effect. He looked, oddly enough, like some kind of angel.
And now that she was actually paying more attention to him, Alice had to note that, yes, the man before truly was quite handsome. Gorgeous even. His face appeared rather feminine in a way. Thinner than usual eyebrows. Thick, shimmering brown hair that traveled down his back. His lips were thin, and his jaw somewhat sharp. A straight nose sat in between two steel gray eyes that were narrower than what she saw on most members of the male persuasion.
While his face looked feminine, the similarities between him and women ended there. His body, long and lean, had a good deal of muscle definition. He wore a white toga that covered the lower left side of his torso, leaving his right shoulder and pectoral exposed. Both shoulder and chest had clearly defined muscles that moved and flexed as his body shifted.
He also had some ripped calves, which she could see one of because the toga didn't hide it.
Yep. This guy might have a face that held a somewhat womanly appearance, but he was, quite clearly, all man.
“Hello?” Said man waved a hand in front of her face. “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.” Alice scowled, her face feeling flush. She swatted the hand he waved in front of her away, then slowly pushed herself to her feet.
“You don't look fine,” the man said. He actually appeared concerned. “You're breathing heavily and your face is all red.” And those words only made her face redder. “Are you sick? I don't know much about human physiology, but I remember some people telling me that humans got sick a lot.”
“Humans? What are you saying? You're―”
Alice found her words, along with her breath, stolen from her as one of the same masculine hands that had started this whole thing brushed the bangs away from her face.
She didn't think her face could get any more red, but soon found herself proven wrong when the man, that damnable, foolish, perverted man, had the audacity to press his forehead against hers.
Hot. Her face felt hot. Her whole body felt hot, like a furnace burning inside of her. The man’s warm breath hit her lips, and his scent invaded her nose. He smelled of mint. It would have almost been refreshing, except that the scent came from a man who didn't seem to know the meaning of the word personal space.
“What the hell are you doing!?”
Alice shoved him off her, making him stumble back. A hand rose to her chest. Even buried under the fabrics of a shirt and bra she could feel her heart hammering in her ribcage, pounding away with more ferocity than a heavy metal band using a double-bass pedal.
The man frowned. “What do you mean what am I doing? I'm checking to see if you have a fever. What else would I be doing? And didn't I tell you not to mention hell? Especially in such a blazé manner. That's not a place you should be talking about lightly.”
Alice ignored his scolding. “Haven't you ever heard of personal space? Or do you go around putting your forehead up against every girl you meet?”
“Well, I normally don't need to,” he said. “Angels don't get sick, you know, so we don't need to check each other’s temperature.”
“Angels?” The longer this conversation went on the more disoriented she became. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
Eyes widening, the young man looked at her, startled, as if he had just now realized that she didn't even know his name.
“That's right. I completely forgot to introduce myself!” He actually looked truly distraught. “I am terribly sorry. Please allow me to properly introduce myself this time.” He bowed to her. He even took one of her hands and kissed it, which made all that effort she put into making her blush disappear go up in smoke. “My name is Michael. I am an Archangel of Heaven, Sword master, and God's Right Hand. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”