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Author: Kita (Donna M.)
Rating: NC-17 for: M/M slash, rape, disturbing imagery, violence. This is a serious NC-17 fic. Please heed the warning if such disturbs you.
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, and make no profit by this obsession.
Summary: A very dark Angel fic, inspired by Shanshu,a line from Anne Rice: ``In the language of the ancient people, the word for flowers is the same as the word for blood`` ( Armand/Daniel, `Queen Of The Damned`) and the ponderance of exactly where inside of Angel does his soul meet his demon.
Distribution: Lists: archive away. Others please ask first. I`m sure I`ll say Ok.
Dedication: To Eterniata, Stat1791, Maayan and Jess, without whom this never would have made it to print.
Author`s notes: This is a dark fic where I tried to make Angel walk a very fine line, yet still maintain the essence of his characterization. I hope I did it justice.
Feedback: On that note, with a ....gulp, I say ..yes.
Komodo ``Don`t believe everything you`re foretold.`` Wasn`t that what I said to him? Taunting him; while he lay moaning, clutching at his severed wrist, bleeding all over the floor, all over himself, all over my broadsword. Grabbing at the mass of tissue and bone where his hand... used to be. Staring at me, incomprehension and incredulity swimming in those tear filled, cobalt eyes. I could hear him. Over the rush of the spilling blood, over the unsteady, furious thumping of his heart, over his gasping breaths, I caught the mantra resounding inside his shock addled brain. ((``I can`t believe he did that, I can`t believe he did that.`` )) You can`t? After everything you did to me? All I have, gone. All I cherish, dust. All I love, wounded and maybe even..... Be grateful that is all I did to you. And worry about more than your goddamn hand if *they* don`t live. And didn`t I smile at him then, the two hundred year old smile, the one which only uses my face but comes from somewhere completely different? And then, didn`t I hear it? The small, insistent buzzing which fills my brain and my blood and my conscience and even my *soul* at moments like these? And then, didn`t I reach out... yes....just before he lost consciousness, so that he would see me, so that he, trapped in the spotlight of my gaze and my malice would watch me do it...and didn`t I lick his blood off the steel blade of my sword? And wasn`t it, dear merciful gods, wasn`t it the sweetest thing I had tasted in a long, long time.... *** I`m watching Cordelia`s blood form a perfect arc above her naked back. It hovers in mid-air, suspended with her scream, and when it lands, it shatters the stillness of her once taintless form. A crimson proclamation, a warning, an omen. The smell of roses and fear. ``She needed the roses.`` I state aloud, to no one in particular. There isn`t anyone else here, in this barren room which was once my office, but is now dust and cobwebs, kindling and memories. Scarred by the brutal kiss of flames and destruction. ``She needed them.`` I repeat, and the dead around me are silent. They watch, blind eyes upon me; those I have taken, then stacked up in the corner like so much firewood. Doyle, and Wesley, Faith and...so many others, I cannot recall. They know me, though. They know me and they watch. Their limbs tangle together like fallen trees and soon the overwhelming stench of them will become alarming to the neighbors..I should move them. But I`m busy. I`m watching Cordelia bleed. It`s funny how I can watch her and watch myself at the same time. I`m making her bleed. I`m raising the bouquet of roses over her smooth, pale shoulders, and bringing their thorns down across her bare skin again and again. The petals have long since fallen away, but the stems are tough. Much tougher than her skin, which has never known such harsh treatment. No, she`s a gentle one, for all her evil-bitch facade, and she deserved roses. So I gave them to her; I wrapped her in them, tucked their vines around her torn forehead, stuffed their long, fleshy limbs in her mouth...``Now be careful my dear, you don`t want to close your lips around those...`` Ah, too late. It`s difficult not to scream when so many blows can fall at one time. The blood drips from her tongue and her screams are muffled by sobs of agony. Humans don`t last very long. I think I`d forgotten. It`s been a long time. ``Too bloody long, mate,`` he says, and I realize he has been standing there all evening. In his black overcoat and nail polish, idly wiping his hands clean on what was once my dishtowel, but is now a soot covered rag. Quickly covered too in scarlet as he continues to rub his fingers over the torn and tattered cloth. I wonder where he found it in here? ``There`s lots of stuff you didn`t know you lost in here, mate.`` he tells me. And I nod. He`s probably right. He usually is about things like that. I wonder if he knows about the dragon. I turn my attention back to Cordelia, but she isn`t very entertaining. She is barely moving, actually, and I`m fairly sure she is going to die soon. Her breathing has that shallow, rapid quality to it, and the amount of blood underneath the remnants of the table I have her chained to is staggering. I don`t remember humans bleeding that much. ``You gonna turn her then? That what all this rot`s about?`` I turn again to look at him. His hands are clean now, but there is a stack of stained towels at his feet. And still the blood is seeping from them. ``No, no, I don`t think so.`` I tell him. ``It`s about something else. I ...I don`t know what.`` As I answer, I drag the long sword over Cordelia`s back, severing her spine. She doesn`t even whimper. I think he`s disappointed. I think I am too. ``You know *exactly* what. Stop being an idiot.`` He flicks his tongue out over his teeth, and in the dirty lights, it is yellow, and forked. He grins at me, and looks back, toward the shadows. ``Anyway, we`ll be `round.`` he tells me, motioning to the dragon in the corner. Guess he does know. ** I wake up with a scream, the sweat and the cum sticking her perfect sheets between my legs. **
I walk through Cordelia`s darkened apartment on silent feet. In two days she and Wesley will be released from the hospital. In two days, things will be normal again. Denis flicks a switch in the kitchen, and the rooms are flooded with blue-white light and false cheer. I breathe. It was a dream. I am safe. I am safe. It was just a dream. One of those childhood incantations to ward off the unspeakable monsters under the bed, the legion of boogeymen in the closet, the faceless ghosts who lay in wait to swallow you whole.... ((It`s only thunder it can`t hurt me )) ((I don`t want anymore blood)) ((If I die before I wake )) ((I don`t need anymore blood)) ((It was just a dream )) (( I will not spill anymore blood)) Laughter. And then the vibration in my ears that will not cease. It is the murmuring of a thousand bees, the thrumming of a thousand tiny wings, the writhing of a thousand worms. He is here. Always. He is hungry. Always. And I have every right to be afraid. Always. I crawl back into bed. **
My knees are sore. The wooden floorboards leave angry marks along my shins, and my thighs throb under the weight of my heavy frame forced into this position. Trails of crimson flow down my raised arms. I`m squirming too much, and my wrists are being shredded by their bonds. I never did do supplication well. I forgot that immortal bones could ache this way. But her talent is as limitless as her patience, apparently. I smell the blood and the roses. The night is young. ``Are you comfortable, darling boy?`` she whispers. All I can see are her legs as she circles me. Long, and pale, and bare. I can imagine her golden hair, and her fathomless gaze. But my line of vision is confined to this floor, and there is no world above her perfect calves. ``Yes, m`lady.`` I wonder for a moment that I know what is to come next. Then I cannot wonder, because the pain is crashing through me in torrents as the skin of my chest skin is split by her crop and my blood spills onto the floor. It gathers in thick, scarlet pools between the cracks in the wood, the patterns hypnotic, intricate, meaningful.... ...a divination...roll the bones... ``What does it mean?`` I ask, suddenly apart from this place of agonizing pain. Instead, somehow, I am watching it, and watching him watching it... ``*That* doesn`t mean anything, don`t you remember? This is not another dream, Angelus.`` I look at him; he is sitting in a chair, hands lightly bound together in front of him. Protocol, really, he could easily get out if he wished to. But he sits, silent and still, watching the scene unfold before him with a hooded and dark gaze. The scent of arousal hovers, an aura of sapphire and vermilion around him; he is shaking almost imperceptibly. His long, auburn hair shimmers in the candlelight with each slight tremor of the lean shoulders. He brought the roses. An offering. To her. To be allowed to watch. Always to watch. She loves roses. How did he find yellow roses in London at the height of autumn? A stinging blow across my cheek, and I cry out, unable to help myself. I hate to be hit in the face, it`s demeaning, and I would not tolerate it from anyone but her. Of course, no one but her would dare try it. ``Pay attention, Childe!`` she admonishes, the tiniest tingle of laughter in her otherwise sonorant voice. ``Darla....`` I whisper...And his head turns to look at me....the me in the shadows, the one dressed and not covered in welts and blood. ``You were expecting someone else, mate?`` he asks derisively, and rises from the chair, wrists unbound, hair restored to platinum, swirling black cashmere and leather. He rests his hands on my lapel, and rubs the material gently between his forefingers and thumbs. ``You *need* to remember.`` he tells me, before grabbing the collar of my coat, and shoving me backward. I fly off my feet, the air rushing past my ears with a furious snarl, as if nature and time itself are incensed by my ignorance. I catch a glimpse of the dragon. When I land, I am kneeling, and I am naked, and I am bound. And I am in pain. *** I wake up then, perversely grateful that I hadn`t bothered to change the sheets. I hold my head in my hands and I play a game of make believe. I make believe that Cordelia`s sheets don`t smell like spent arousal and rose perfume. I make believe I don`t hear the soft, whispered song inside my veins, growing louder with each moment I sleep, each moment I wake. And most of all, I make believe that I am not wondering when Lindsey MacDonald will be discharged from the hospital. **
The puddle of blood underneath me is cool, and slippery. And mine. I`m not sure I have much skin left on my back, or my chest. But she is good at this. She allows just enough time to heal, to catch my unneeded breath. This is not punishment. He would not have been allowed to watch that. There aren`t enough roses on this continent to breach that etiquette. This is just ...foreplay. Sport. A lesson. If I learn it well, perhaps we won`t have to go through it again. The crop finds my left shoulder and a raw patch of skin. I howl. Perhaps we *will* have to repeat this lesson. I`ve completely forgotten the meaning. All I want is for her to allow me release. I know better than to do it without permission. And I know better than to ask for permission. Those lessons were learned early. And well. So I kneel in a pool of my own blood, aroused, and in pain and in waiting. She kneels in front of me, her small, cool, tight fist around the base of my hard cock. ``Did you need something, dear boy?`` I shake my head. I really don`t do supplication well. As the thwap of her other hand across my cheekbone attests. I grin. ``Sorry, M'Lady, no.`` She smirks back. ``You are just so fortunate that you are pretty,`` she tells me as if she is saying it for the first time, instead of the hundredth, and still, my chest tightens to hear it spoken. Bound, and bound to her, and in pain and in love, and it`s really all the same, isn`t it? What is the difference between love and pain when the same hands bring both? Oh yes. That was the lesson. Lucky me. And her hand releasing its furious grip on my cock, and instead stroking along its length now, sliding over my skin in a primal rhythm, the rhythm of rocking, of singing, of ...fucking...and her words, whispered against my bruised and bloodied cheek. And when I gasp, the only semblance of a request I can manage, she knows, and she answers me... ``Yes, darling boy, finish now. Finish what we`ve started.`` **
I open my eyes to the red blink of the digital clock and the phone receiver in my hand. I have no recollection of actually dialing. But Mercy Hospital is answering. ``Good Evening. I`m wondering about the condition of my...brother. Lindsey Macdonald.``.......... ``I know, no, he probably wouldn`t have mentioned me. I don`t live in California, we have been out of touch for some time... I heard he was severely injured and I ---`` ``He did? When was that? Against medical advice? Meaning ...all right, yes, I see. No, that will do. Thank you.`` I return the phone to its cradle and the thrumming inside me is so loud, I cannot hear anything else. Not the whir of the ceiling fan, not the whoosh of the air conditioner, not Denis angrily rattling the pots in the kitchen. And you know, I pity the mortal who first heard this sound. Who first *felt* this sound. Who first knew Him so well that he was able to choose His Name for Him. Beelzebub...My Lord of the Flies...My Lord Who Hums. **
I get up and sit in the darkness of the kitchen again. This time, Denis doesn`t turn the lights on for me. In the last few years I have spent living among mortals, I have developed rituals for this. Not majik, maybe...but...majical for me. I know the gods don`t care about the trappings, they just want to hear your voice. But I am so inadequate at supplication, and my fetishes, my totems, they give me focus. They help restore order. I don`t tell anyone this, certainly not the humans who know me. I don`t tell them how every act of spilling blood, no matter whose -or whats`- calls forth my demon, and makes him just a wee bit stronger. I don`t tell them that it takes tremendous focus and energy to force him back into submission. I don`t tell them that the job I have been returned to Earth to do is amore than a means to an end. It is a test, every day. Of my will. Of my strength. Of my humanity. Of my soul. The call of chaos is infinitely seductive. Darkness is a beguiling mistress, and she has long been mine. She does not give up her consorts without a battle. Cordelia says I`m obsessive compulsive. How can I explain to her that the only way to bring order to my existence is to keep order in my environment? How can I explain to her the old adage of `As above, so below?` She would never understand. No one can. So I have never shown anyone the small shoe box under my bed, filled with momentos of civilization; hair ribbons and movie tickets, a silver ring and a letter covered in perfume. Reminders from every case I have worked on since coming to LA. Sage, sweetgrass and rose petals. And photos I don`t appear in. I never said I wasn`t pathetic. But I am....organized. And to quell the humming, the burgeoning call of death, I sort through this box, and I burn some sage, and I think of her. And of myself when I was a man. Now all my trappings are gone, burned into ash by foolish and arrogant mortals who sought to separate me from the Powers, but instead, succeeded only in separating me from the tenuous hold I have on my humanity. There are no friends here to assure me that I am not *him*, there are no smiling photographs of old loves, there is no altar and there is no physical connection to hope. And I am so bad at this meta-language, I cannot invoke peace with just my voice, I never could. Balance cannot be restored here, not by me, not by mere words. ((As I will it, so mote it be)) ((So let it be written, so let it be done)) ``Make it so, Number One`` says a sarcastic British voice, and I turn o look at him. ``You`ve come to quote obscure pop culture references at me?`` I ask him wearily. ``No, I`ve come to tell you how to restore your precious balance.`` I laugh harshly. ``You`ve come to help *me*? Why do I find that hard to believe?`` ``Well, you`ll find it easier to believe when I assure you that the kind of help I`m offerin` won`t be the kind you`ll actually *like.*`` I just stare at him, willing him away. But you know, without the trappings...my will is pretty fucking useless. ``You`re much more of an action kinda guy, mate.`` he agrees, although I hadn`t spoken the last. ``And it`s only action that`ll fix this for you. It`s rather biblical though; you and your pet soul are bound to like that. Think of it as a blood sacrifice. An eye for an eye.`` ((a tooth for a tooth...and if thy right hand offends thee, cut it off)) ``I won`t do it.`` I tell him, with as much authority as I can muster. I watch him toss back one beer after another in the dim lights of Cordelia`s kitchen. After his earlier tantrum, Denis is strangely silent now. I don`t think he likes him being here. He just shrugs his black clad shoulders at me, and lights a cigarette. His pale face alights from the bottom, the orange glow creating a peculiar halo effect around his golden locks. I`m not sure why this makes me nervous. ``Whatever, mate. He`s not too particular.`` He gestures again to the hulking animal in the corner, curled upon the plaid kitchen rug, in a puddle of its own drool. Its tongue flicks out over yellow teeth, scenting the air. ``Leave,`` I tell him. ``Leave, and take *it* with you.`` He just laughs at that , ((where can he possibly go?)) the embers of his cigarette shooting like small stars across the table. I walk away but he follows me. Relentless. Like I taught him. ``Do you know how they hunt?`` he asks me. We are in the bathroom. Why are we in the bathroom? The tile is cold beneath my bare feet, and the lizard creature is perched on the tub, eyeing me expectantly. I shiver. ``I -- I`m not sure. What`s the difference?`` He smirks, and turns me forcefully, so that I face the floor to ceiling high mirror. Cordy would have one this large. Not that it makes a difference to me. All I can see in it is the blue and white bathroom. He shuts the door; another mirror, its reflections merge with the first, so that now there are an infinite array of blue and white bathrooms, and in them all, a dragon stares at me from atop the claw foot tub. He and I, however, don`t appear in any of them. ``Don`t you get it, Angelus? Christ, how stupid are you?`` ** I am dressed now and in my car. The feeling of leather under my legs and the steering wheel, solid between my hands, assures me that this is real. I have no idea where I am going. Only that I have to get away. ((where can I possibly go?)) I glance in the rearview mirror. I don`t see him, so of course, he is there. He is finishing his earlier line of questioning. ``Do you know how they hunt?`` I sigh. ``No. I suppose you`re gonna tell me?`` A genuine smile. So rare. The flick of a match. Red and yellow and blue flame. ``They don`t take their prey down in one hit. They ain`t large enough to take down a cow, say, in one fell swoop. Actually, it`s not even the bite itself that kills the victim, `` he tells me. I pull onto the highway and struggle to listen to him. It`s difficult. I`m hungry. ``They usually bite their victims on an extremity, a hand, a leg. Then, it`s the poison in the bite that kills the prey. And it`s not typical poison, either. It`s not like a snake, or a spider where you get bit, then you just bloody well die in a couple hours or so. It`s the 40 or more kinds of bacteria in their saliva that do the trick. There is no cure. There is no anti venom, no anti-biotic. There is nothing but death.`` ``Why do I have to --`` But he cuts me off with a wave of one hand. ``But it`s a slow death. So they follow the prey around, tracking the stench of the wound, and their own bacteria festering in it, and they watch as it succumbs to agony. Sometimes it`ll take days, even up to a week. They follow it, until it is too sick to stand. Then they take it. Alive. They eat their prey alive.`` I turn to look at him, he is sitting next to me now, in the passenger seat, staring at me intently. ``They don`t care how big something is, `cause nothing is immune to their poison. Nothing. Not even other dragons. If there is nothing else around, they`ll just eat their own kind.`` ((their own kind?)) ((she needed the roses)) ((``they`re not too particular`` )) ((Cordelia. Wesley. I can`t lose anything else. I have nothing left to lose. I won`t lose them too.)) ((``finish what we`ve started`` )) will you make this deal? I don`t know. ``Determined little bastards, aren`t they.`` I mumble, stopping for a red light. A small bounce on the seat. He reaches over, eyes alight, and grabs my face in his hands. ``By George, you`ve *finally* gotten it.`` His kiss is cold, hard, an insistent tongue flicking between my teeth. I don`t pull away. **
I pull up in front of his house, the buzzing in my head so loud that there is simply nothing else. I knock on the door. ``Yea, it`s open come in.`` Thank the gods for pain medication and mortal stupidity, for the fools` notion of invincibility, for the soft rain that falls on my hair as I push open his door. ``Fuck!`` And even in his semi drugged state he knows enough to curse, to stumble off the couch, to back away. I smell his wound, the festering scent that I have inflicted. The smellof blood, and pain, and....That Which is Unfinished. I wonder if he sees the dragon behind me too. He is standing with his back to the wall. After his initial outburst,he now looks remarkably calm. ``What do you want?`` he asks me, eyes darting around the room. I stand well clear of any wooden objects, and wonder mindlessly if he has a silent alarm. And why he doesn`t smell like fear. ``I don`t know.`` I answer, because it`s the truth, and he blinks thoseblue eyes at me, and I step closer. He tries to back away again, but he is against the wall. ``You took everything you could, all right? You took my goddamned fucking hand. What more do you want?`` Angry. He looks so angry. But not afraid. Not afraid like...not like he should be. ``You deserved it.`` I tell him. And didn`t he? Didn`t he deserve what I did to him? After what he did to me, to mine? ``Oh, so you`re the angel of justice now, is that it? So goddamn wise and all-knowing. You don`t know *shit*, Angel. Not about me, not about yourself, not about anything. So get the fuck out of my house before I call the cops.`` Slight tremor in the voice at the end; could be the medication. ((Call the cops. Guess there is no silent alarm then. )) I calmly reach over and pull the phone jack from the wall. I`m sure there are other phones, but he won`t be leaving the room to get to them. ``*I* don`t know anything? I seem to recall you told me everything, Lindsey. Your whole sorry, useless life...when was that? Oh yes, right before you went evil again and *tried to kill my friends*. `` ``I remember that too. I remember you mocked me, Angel. You listened to what I lived through, and my reasons for becoming what I did, and you fucking *mocked* me.`` ``I didn`t mock *you*, I mocked your pathetic excuses for reasons. You sold your soul because you were hungry as a kid? Give me a fucking break, Lindsey. If that were reason enough half the country would work for Wolfrham and Hart. But see, they don`t. *You* do. And it`s because you`re weak and stupid, not because you had a depressing childhood. And that`s the same reason you turned your back on what I offered you.`` ``So my reasons weren`t good enough for you, is that it? Hypocritical son of a bitch. *My* reasons for losing my soul were insignificant, huh? Well, tell me, All-Wise One, what exactly *is* a good enough reason for selling one`s soul? Poverty didn`t cut it with you, death didn`t cut it...let`s see...why did you lose yours again? Oh yea, a cheap fucking lay. And TWICE if I recall.`` I lean in closer and smack his pretty face. Once. Hard. With the back of my hand. From the looks of him, he hates that as much as I ever did. I watch as the blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Fresh wound opened. So many of them here. So many that my senses are overwhelmed with them. So many that I wouldn`t know where to begin... I grab him by his collar. ``Does it end here?`` I grit between my teeth. ``What..does what..?`` He has no idea what I am talking about, but that is all right. I am not talking to him. ``I do this, I do this now, and this *ends*, yes? This is my ritual, and when it is done, you leave. Those I love are safe... Safe from you? Safe from...from me? Yes?`` And I see against the backs of my eyelids, a small, curt nod of a platinum head. The dragon curls against my ankles. A promise. The beast will savor this. It will be enough. In moments I have Lindsay on his knees, his face is bloodied, and his chest is bare and bruised. He doesn`t try to fight me off, although his arms - his good arm- is raised to defend himself against my savage blows. I am holding back. The deal did not involve killing him. Just...breaking him. Just...((finishing what we`ve started)). The powerful odor of mortal blood again, and the humming which times my fists. And still, still, no scent of fear. ``You`re not even afraid of me..`` I murmur, hauling him roughly to his feet, and spinning him to face the wall. I slam him against it, and he grunts. Blood trickles from his lips. ``You`d like that wouldn`t you? If I was? You`d fucking get off on that. But no. No, I`m not afraid,`` he spits. ``You`re *not* Angelus. Even I can tell the goddamned difference.`` A mirthless ironic sound masquerading as a laugh, then, ``Even like this.`` he nods toward the blood on the floor, the blood on his chest. ``I can tell. I know you`re not him, and I know I`ll walk out of here. So why should I be afraid, Angel? Why should I?`` But, oh, isn`t he a lovely sacrificial lamb? Lambs don`t know any better than not to be afraid either. They just follow you to that altar, bleating the entire time and rubbing their soft little heads against your leg. I am silent for a long, long moment. I close my eyes, and I see it again. Doyle. Wesley. Cordelia. In the end, it will be Buffy, Willow...all of them, the death of all the innocents. And he`s not an innocent, is he? This man before me...He is...he is one of us. ((my brother)) This is a just deal. This is Meant to be. Ordained. Ancient. Sacred. Blood sacrifice. The humming. Louder now. Singing. A chorus of Angels. There are Angels in Hell. I have seen them. I watch the hairs rise on the back of his shoulders as my breath cascades over him, caressing, taunting. A dance. Brutal but compelling. Like all of this ``Ah, Linds,`` the whisper says, skirting his ear, his neck, ``You`ll leave this room tonight, yes,`` I know he can hear the smile in the sibilant, silken voice, which is mine..but not mine.... ``You`ll leave. But you most certainly *will not walk* out of here.`` And finally, at last, I smell the fear. **
I have gagged him with a tie, and now he is tossed over the kitchen table, arms pinned behind his back, so that his shoulder blades form small wings just beneath his head of tussled curls. I tie his elbows together with my belt, but really, it`s protocol at this point. He isn`t going anywhere. He is sweating, and breathing in loud gasps, his slim shoulders heaving with the effort of scarcely held control. The scent of fear and sweat and ...roses. Someone had sent him roses. I close my eyes as I tear his loose fitting pants from around his waist. Now he struggles, just a bit, just enough so that his writhing can`t be mistaken for anything other than an attempt at flight. ``Shhhhhhh......`` I whisper, running one finger down the midline of his spine, gathering the salty droplets of fear into a small pool at the hollow of his back. And he groans, with a mouthful of the silk. The cry of a small, wounded animal. The call of prey. I`m not sure when I get my jeans off, but I know that I am naked as I lay my tongue against the back of his neck, and I lick in long, wet strokes along his nape. I could drown in that scent, and.. I want to. He is not struggling now, but that`s probably only because I have a good fifty or so pounds on him, and he is still injured. And I am pressed against him, and he is pressed against a wooden table. Protocol again. Where could he possibly go to run from me? Where could this pretty, arrogant, stupid boy possibly go that I wouldn`t find him? And I realize I am asking him that out loud, my breath caressing his hairline, making small bumps appear there. ``What did you think would happen, Lindsay? Where did you think you were going to go?`` And he groans again, longer, lower, louder. ``You fucked with things you shouldn`t have, boy. You fucked with my family. You fucked with *me*. So yea, yea, you`ll be alive when I`m done with you. But you might just wish you weren`t.`` He is struggling in earnest, fighting me with every bit of strength and fear and rage he has in him. He is strong, and he is angry, and he is very, very afraid. But it is not enough, it is nowhere near enough; it cannot match my preternatural strength, my righteous indignation. My fear. And this is going to hurt. I think I say that aloud too. But I can`t really hear anything over his howl, muffled as it is by the silk and wrapping itself around my heart like the tight, wet, velvet heat of him around my cock. I groan against his shoulder blades, pressing his arms back and together to lick the risen flesh, and elicit another strangled cry from his gagged mouth. Those sounds....did you know that rabbits cry out? But only when they are terrified. As if the gods gave certain animals voices solely to herald their impending doom. He is making noises like that now. Delicate whimpers, and fragile moans, and he gives them up with each thrust of my hips, and each arch of his back. He gives them up to me. So, yes, give it to me, let me take it, let me swallow it all, like I have always done, its not just the blood I swallow is it? It`s the rage and the hate and the pain and the desire and the goddamnfucking endless loneliness that goes on and on without end, and the lies, the promises, the secrets, the futures I can never ever have. So you take some Lindsey, you take some of it off me, you little fucking bastard, you take some, I am tired of it all... So yes, this is for what you did to Cordelia, and this is for what you did to Wesley, and this is for what you did to my office, and my home, and my family, and my property, and this is for sending Faith, and this is for what happened between me and Buffy because of it, and this is for that goddamned loser she`s fucking now, and this is for the fact that I had to leave her, and this is for making me a goddamned fucking vampire, and this is for killing Doyle, and this is for my sister, and this is for my mother, and this is for Jenny Calendar, and this is for the way Giles still looks at me after all this time, and this is for when I was ten and my father beat the living shit out of me for something I don`t even think I did, and this is for the lack of good fucking movies on TV at three AM, and this is for having those ridiculously blue eyes that remind me of when I was alive, and this is for the dark hair and the sculpted chin and cheeks, and this is for the pouty mouth, and this is for the slim hips under your 800$ suit, and this is for the tightest, most fuckable ass I have had in a long, long time. And this is for making me do this. And this is for making me do this. And this is for making me do this! Damn you. And I realize I`m speaking aloud again, because I can hear my voice, over the rush of his blood and the pounding of his heart and the sounds of flesh on flesh. Crimson streams running down the back of his legs and the front of mine, and I want it, I want it... I want it all. How could I not want him right now? How could I not need him, the way he needs me...needs me to stop hurting him, to let go of his arms before his shoulders dislocate, to stop pounding myself inside of him before he breaks in two. How could I not love him right now? Right here. When he fills my vision, when he has become my world, when he is all I can see, and smell and taste? I have spent so long as Raphael, and I am weary of it. Let me be Makkiel for you, dear boy, let me be your Angel of Punishment, oh let me, let me love you this way, and I promise you... I promise... I reach around his body and smile, feeling the hot, hardened length of his cock as it jumps and twitches in my palm. I struggle to remember his human frailty, but the invocation of dichotomy is so loud... Mortal and beast, pleasure and pain. Let me take you, let me show you... That it`s one and the same. I`m whispering to him again, and he is melting in my hands. Of course he is; after so much pain, who wouldn`t squirm into a hand which offers only pleasure? After so much fear who wouldn`t arch against a caress that offered blissful release? Ahh yes...don`t fight this, it doesn`t make you weak...it doesn`t mean you wanted this.... No..no not at all.... Protocol anyway. It`s all the devil`s etiquette. ``Come on,`` I whisper in his ear, licking the ridge of flesh and nibbling along his earlobe...I haven`t even bitten him yet. Until now. Until I sink my fangs into his pulse, and the artery spurts its coveted drink into my eager throat... and that is all it takes, of course, what else could it possibly take? The wind rushes past my ears and my own veins thunder with the release, and for one brief, shining, blessed moment.... ....I had wanted it to last a bit longer, but he can`t, he`s human, and they are so fragile, they are so goddamn fragile. And this one is one of mine. With word, with deed, with bite and blood and cum... But when I tear my mouth away he is coming in my hands, and I wonder...what sort of a man was weaned on such pain? What kind of a life makes the rape and bite of a vampire into a moment of ecstasy by comparison? I let him go. He sinks to the kitchen floor in a wet bundle of grief and blood, his breath coming in hiccupped hitches, his face stained with tears, his arms still twisted behind his back. For a moment, I simply stare down at him, waiting to feel.....something. Anything. Please. Then I turn away, and walk toward the bathroom. ** The water runs over me, and I can feel it. Little pin pricks of cold and hot, of pleasure and discomfort, assuring me that I am not hallucinating, I am not dreaming, I am awake...I am awake, and I have done it. I bang the back of my head against the cold tile, a rhythm for rocking, for singing, for....fucking...and the blood starts to seep out of my scalp. I can feel that too. Yes, I am awake, this was real....I am .... //Eu sunt monstru// //I am a monster// I raped a man. ``Can`t exactly rape the willin`, mate.`` I jump, and nearly lose my footing in the slippery tub. ``Why are you still here?`` I don`t even think I open my eyes. I wonder if I even opened my mouth. But he`ll hear me. He always does. He steps closer to me, he doesn`t need body heat to announce the closeness of that lean, muscled form. The one which I have known, so intimately, for so long. Almost as well as my own. ``Ah, pet. This isn`t over. What makes you think this is over?`` Oh. I rape someone and now I`m 'pet`. Dubious honor to be certain. ``Because you *promised* me it would be. I did what you wanted...what you both wanted. I did it. Now you leave me alone.`` Where is the authority in that command, I wonder? ``Ah, pet, don`t carry on so. You`re almost there. Not quite though. The man came in your hands, Sire. Sorta negates the whole `breakin him` concept.`` My eyes fly open at the title. `Sire`. Last time he addressed me that way I was chained to a ceiling with seven hot pokers in my side. He grins at me, as if to say, no hard feelings. And he is fully dressed. Standing in Lindsey`s shower, in a duster and boots. The water pours over him, collecting in small, clear droplets on his platinum hair, his square shoulders. He looks so..clean. He smiles at me again. I glance at the bath mat. The dragon sits, sated, waiting, hungry, bored...who can tell? ``Go. Away.`` But before I can wonder where the authority is in that command, he is pressed up against me, and his tongue is running in small, almost lazy circles over my lips, and they part, because they have to, because he might be fully clothed, but I am not, and he might be calm and collected, but I most certainly am not, and because I know, for mercy`s sakes, I know what it is in *my* lousy, stinking, fucking unlife that makes the cold, illusory kiss of an enemy still better than the alternatives. And he is pushing me back against the smooth porcelain, and I am letting him. Letting him kiss me in places he hasn`t in over a century and a half, letting him call forth all those noises from my chest and my throat, letting him nibble and suck..and ...*gods* bite...yes, that too, no no no permission asked or granted...letting him do all of it, because... maybe it will take all this away...and maybe I will just wake up from a dream and it won`t have happened...and maybe... oh oh oh...maybe if he drinks enough I just won`t wake up at all... His hungry mouth leaves my neck and I know I cry out in disappointment. I can feel him smile again as he licks a wet, chilly trail down my stomach to my cock...evidence...scene of the crime.... I gasp because his mouth has always been.... always.... And I open my eyes to watch him...shameless I am, I don`t deserve such pleasure, but give it to me anyway....give it all to me...I`ll take it...I want it...I need you...need... And the scream is ripped from my throat, because it`s not him...its`s not human...or vampire...it`s beast...it`s that *thing* and I didn`t want this..no I didn`t want... get off of me get off of me get your horrible goddamn claws out of my stomach and your yellow tongue off my thighs and don`t fucking touch me and don`t fucking lick me and I`m not you and you`re not me I have a soul I know who I am I know who I am and I won`t let you I won`t ..... Banging my head against the tile again, spilling more useless blood. And then my cool, sticky semen across my own hand, and my tears across my face. ** I return to the kitchen, and he is still there. ((where else would he be? where can he go?)) Still laying across the floor in a silent heap, hands behind his back, twisted mass of wet silk in his mouth. I reach down, and he flinches...once..just once. I pull the gag out of his mouth, and he sucks in a deep, hungry breath, but that is all. I unbind his elbows, and he doesn`t move at all. Just lays there, with his good arm, and his bandaged arm behind his back. How could they think he is not broken? I pull him into my arms, and scoop him up like a child, carrying him toward the bath. That`s when I see it. His eyes. Screaming their blue at me. Full of rage and malice and hate and the call of revenge. Strong enough to do it. He is. Look at those eyes. They were right. Far from broken. I run the water again, filling the tub this time, and he just sits, on the floor, in the corner, cold cobalt blue on me, seeing everything, seeing nothing. Then I pick him up again and place him in the tub, and he turns that gaze to my face. And I fear *I* might break. But of course, I don`t. Instead I pick up a washcloth, and begin to gently clean him, squeezing water on his damp curls, and his smooth neck, and his soft, almost hairless chest. I rub the soap over the cloth, not him, and the cloth over his body...I don`t touch him....I am not going to actually touch him... His eyes squeeze shut, and the tears start to flow between the long, sooty lashes, huge, salty droplets, //silent witness bear.// By the time I lather the soap in his hair, he is sobbing uncontrollably, and I say nothing, I do nothing, just keep washing him, just keep cleaning him, just keep... wondering what could have happened to him in the past that was so unspeakable that it took gentleness to finally...break him. I close my eyes, and I see them...walking out the front door of this apartment. The dragon on a rhinestone leash, and he is leading it, and he turns to look at me, over his shoulder, and he winks...once. Then the door closes behind them. I am alone. I dry Lindsay off, and rummage through his drawers for something to put him in. He stands like a child, a doll, those huge, crystal tears sliding down his face while I tend to him. I carry him to the bed, and deposit him gently in the middle of it. He looks startled behind the uneven gulps, and I realize he expects me to get in next to him. But I don`t. I pull the blankets up over him, I turn the lights down, and I walk to the door. When I look back over at him, the tears haven`t stopped though his eyes are still shut. It isn`t until I stand in the doorway that I feel them on me again. I close the door. ** ``Cordelia,`` I whisper; she is sleeping in the hospital bed, the sheets starched and white, and smooth. Wesley sleeps in the chair beside her. His face is purpled and I can smell the blood from his healing wounds. Her wounds do not bleed, but I can smell them anyway. I pretend I cannot. She opens her eyes and looks at me, and she smiles; she sees only her friend, only her ..Angel...and Wesley rouses too, and he takes the bundle from my hand... He places the fresh pink roses in the water pitcher. And I realize that for the first time since I cut off Lindsey`s hand, I cannot hear the humming in my veins. And I pray, I pray to anything that might listen to me, to the Christ child on the wall above her bed, to any and all the ancient gods that still give a good goddamn about me and my people. I pray that the two mortals here will never, ever hear that sound. ~Finis Feedback | 
