ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

Impromptu: Notes
by ethrosdemon HRH

Distribution: Ask me, and I will cry from joy.
Disclaimer: Joss made it up, too bad he is an incompetent ninny. Mutant Enemy and others own the rights. No suing please.
Rating: NC-17 (This came from the Darkplace. m/m contact, violence, perversion. You have been warned.)
Pairing: A/X
Feedback: The voodoo dolls are out.
Dedication: Donna, who gave me the pivotal concept for the fic AND beta-ed me. Lar, for reminding me I do not suck, that some words need capitols and for being my personal cheerleader. Spyke, who is busy but still took the time to baby and stroke me.
Note: This is a companion to “Impromptu: Keys” read it 1st. All my fics live at eterniata.com

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Somedays, Cordelia is the bane of my existence. Bane of my unlife? She doesn’t just get on my nerves, she lives on them, she dances on them in five inch stilettos, the cha-cha or the samba, some beat-driven latin dance.

She knows what’s she’s doing and she thinks she’s allowed. Because she loves me and we are a “family”, and I love her and I love Wes, and all is right with the world, cue chirping birds and soundtrack swell. Yeah, she has me on that, because I do love her, and that’s why she isn’t a few pints short or nursing a fractured collarbone. Too often recently I’ve bitten my bottom lip or turned on my heal and walked out of the room to keep from snatching her up by her over-gelled (people in glass houses, Angel. Shut up inner-Wesley) locks, throwing her over my knee and beating her ass until it’s the same color as the hair of that annoying singer she has on endless loop on the cd player.

Spanking might not be her kink. Her on bottom anyway. Besides, she and Wesley are my home now, the home in coming home. They belong to me, and I protect what’s mine, until I decide I want something else and kill the old thing. Darla seems to have gotten her voice back into my head faster than she used to have my pants off and across the room. Sexual frustration and Darla, that way lies madness, and this little self-flagellation session is devoted to how much I love Cordelia and want to protect her from life, from herself, from ME. Her newest annoying habit might eventually lead to one of our deaths, however: little, square pieces of paper with glue on the back. They apparently come in every hue known to man, and they never seem to fall off of anything of their own accord. But to the important part, they have messages written on them. Maddeningly undecipherable messages to Cordelia from Cordelia. “Pick up Blahnik’s from Lees’” on teal on the refrigerator. “Remind Dennis about light bill” on fuchsia on the rearview of my car. “Get tiger balm from Gunn” on canary on the mirror of the downstairs bathroom. And the one that has me sitting here in the dark considering self-inflicted mutilation: “Call W about X’s birthday” on scarlet on the computer monitor.

Call W about X’s birthday. There are some hazards to having Cordelia around that have little to do with the fact that she is a 19 year old female with no awareness of her environment. She’s still in contact with people in Sunnydale. One person in particular, it would appear.

On my worst days, I find myself struck almost immobile-- muscles seized up, tendons pulling taunt-- at the thought that it might all slip through my fingers. That they will slip through my fingers; my second chance, my hundredth chance really. When I feel the hush, the stillness that presages the dread, I lock the door to my room to let anxiety and creeping doubt slither out to find me. A sandcastle built just that much too close the tide, that’s their trust in me. Cordelia’s world rests on sand, not rock. The sand of the two selves. Angel whom she knows from constant contact and observation; Angelus whom she fears from slight contact and rumor. Threat to my new microcosm comes as an ambush, a shock to realize that she still talks to him. Fears we worry in the dark sometimes truly arise.

How often and why and to what purpose I can only clutch at. What do they talk about? Has she known all along? Were they intimate enough that he confided in her? Was it more than a high school romance consisting of the sickening need to be wanted and accepted? Now that I know both of them equally, I realize it could have been, could have been more, could have been true love, self-abasement at it’s highest where all the petty acts and filth we normally hide away needs to be shared for the love to be consummated. No way she knows it all, but could he have hinted or shimmied around the truth hoping she would realize? Dropped enough hints she might spark to recognition one day?

She can be dense. Might have missed the signs, written the contusions and lacerations off as “in the line of duty” wounds. Have to find out before the panic sets in and drives everything else out. Maybe I would rather not know. Could be better to just wish and forget and ignore. Better for someone that isn’t me; have to know. Have to know if he told her * anything*. Need her so much now, and what he could do to my new life is so much more than shred or tear, total obliteration. One misplaced remark or drunken confession, and there I am scrambling to cover and explain, blame it on the demon. Can’t let her grow to hate me, she’s Replacement Sister. Grown up and to the manor born, ferociously brilliant and subtle, frighteningly beautiful, sultry and sexual, steel-willed and brittle. Sometimes when I’m as alone as you can be around here, and positive she can’t hear me, I whisper to her with another name, Kathy. If she found out about he and I, if the whelp ever let her spy in through his eyes on even one of our interludes, it would all erode and fall to nothing. She might see me as Angel, her friend, companion, slave-driver, boss, vision-causer, who knows, but could she still blind herself to who I actually am if the boy ripped the scales from her eyes with the claws he learned to use from me?

Not the first time his life sits on my chest, crushing the non-air from my lungs. His sin by omission sent me to Hell after all. He shadows my thoughts, one of my personal wraiths, always at the edge of my vision, constant reminders of my past. Loose ends, they always seek you out to choke or trip you. Should’ve killed him so many times. The thoughts I don’t want to indulge anymore. Twinge is there. Know it’s wrong to even THINK about killing him, but that taste is right in the back of my throat, and sometimes I crave it like an addict, just an echo of the old flavor of bloodlust.

Think about him from a different aspect often enough too. Perfect victim. Xander was mine; maybe still is mine, in every way and manner. He owned me some because of that. My weakness for the objects I love being the reason he is alive today and not plotting Buffy’s death from Spike’s side or moldering in the ground of a weary cemetery at this very instant. Psychic vampyrism. Something Cordelia showed me on the internet. Laugh riot. But that is how he fed me and kept himself alive, which might make me the laugh riot now that I think about it. Me being a comic gem does not alter the fact that it was his inner-turmoil, his self-repulsion set against his self-preservatory instincts, his self-loathing grappling with the spark of love he had for me that bound us together. The love was the hardest to draw out, was also the most rewarding. The art I cultivated for two centuries: forcing someone to love me while their self-hatred grows like spores and takes over every available space inside.

His hate ran deep, and it was a crouching, wretched, vicious thing. My boy made me love him; like calls to like. Love for my future childe and for the place he occupied in the panoply that was my plan to destroy Buffy. Could have been something else too, another son with a dark-gray nudging to black nature waiting to be molded, waiting to be a companion through eternity, my infirmity tends to run towards the delicate ones who feign strength.

Then there was 500 years to consider why I didn’t kill him on one of the many occasions he so richly deserved it, BEFORE he had the chance to send me to Hell. 500 years to reflect on what he could have been if he had never met me, on what they all would have been if they had never met me.

Due to Cordelia’s memory retrieval system Xander is bumping around in my mind reminding me of who I truly am and what I truly am. Pleasures I abhor myself for even thinking about are so close, rasping to me in non-words. I want to let them in. Really, what is a man, or a demon, besides his memories. Mine happen to be more sordid than most, but they are all I really have. Especially now that all of my things were disintegrated.

Oxygen deprived blood has a particular taste. The same way blood with a high fat content feels like living, satin, gros-grain ribbon or diabetic blood tastes sweet like metallic candy. Carbon dioxide laced blood is more condensed, compact and saturated. Feels muddy on the tongue, the copper tang is reduced. The adrenaline is more concentrated, and sometimes the sex hormones are so intense the headrush causes your knees to buckle. My special treat, always the treat because it was reserved for victims I enjoyed in other ways as well.

With Xander, I never intended to show him how much pleasure we could both find in the pain, but he wormed under my skin and left a shard behind.

The first night I drank from him I started with pressure to the rubs that caused hairline fractures and hematomas just under the skin. Never wanted to leave marks that would show with this boy. The game was in his mind, and the other children were not invited to play. Wanted him to reach for the pain and indulge in it, train him to associate the pain with the pleasure I would give him along with it.

Caught him outside his house, in socks and underwear-both white or once white, running to his father’s car for a TAPE he forgot. A tape he forgot. I’m sure. I caught him running outside almost naked, probably on his third pass , waiting for me to whisk him away to do my evil will to him. Should’ve waited it out and made him come to me, plan one thwarted by my desire for the boy. He should have died with that realization. Instead, slip my right hand over his mouth and wrap my left around his torso, press him back against me with enough force for the cracked ribs and the bruising. Cart my boy off into the night. Lack of oxygen knocked him out in seconds, I hate carrying a struggling burden.

“Angelus, where are we?” complete darkness prevents him from seeing that we’re at the most convenient torture chamber for me, my house.

“Do you REALLY expect an answer or are you trying to lure me into some tiresome conversation? You’ll tell me how evil and sadistic I am, and then I’ll see the light and repent, and you can leave without too much bloodloss?” He can hear that I am closing in on him as I speak; twists his head from side to side like some sort of rapacious bird and reaches crooked fingers out to find me.

“Let’s just get to the bloodloss part so I don’t have to listen to you talk to yourself out loud anymo…” Last word cut off by my chest knocking the air from his, ramming him into the wall and letting him in on the purple blooms still finding their deepest color across his chest and sides. Stucco, I can smell the blood that’s smearing against the plaster from the fresh wounds on his back. No fight, shock, even though he knew it was about to happen. Lace the fingers of my right hand through his left and twirl my thumb through the sweat on his palm.

“Boy, could you at least * attempt * to be subtle? Or beg me for what you want, crawl around on your knees and rub your face on my leg. The nonchalant act is wearing thin. Convince me you really want to leave…” Just a taste, his eyelid under my tongue. “Or beg me to beat you. Decide.”

“I don’t know what…” writhing some now, just the hips, not the kind of squirming meant to facilitate escape.

“If you say you don’t know what I mean, you’re in the last two minutes of your life,” bend his fingers backwards enough to feel the give end but not a break. Trip over his face with the index and middle finger of my left hand, work down to his throat, following with my tongue. Miniscule wiggles followed by pelvic thrusts from him, not sure which way my wind is blowing; lust and terror is dripping off of him into my mouth.

“Do you love me, Alexander?” ease his fingers back to a natural position but keep my hold.

“Do you lay in your bed in your parents’ house at night fondling yourself and fantasizing that I love you back? That some night I’ll break down into sobs and confess that I love something besides your weakness and your blood?” Rigid spine and held breath from him. Twitch from his hand, twist and yank and trying to get one part of himself free. Seize his wrist instead.

“Touch me.” Fist now instead of open palm. Pinch the interstice between wrist and hand. “Do it now.”

Increase the pressure just enough and his fingers are scorching me through the leather of my pants, and I can’t help but avail myself of his lack of will, inability to withstand pain.

“Do you want scars tonight to match the bruises? You know I mean my skin, not my pants.” He never looks at me when I have him trapped like this, and that fragment of self-control I allow at this level of his submission, couldn’t see me in the dark anyway.

Two fingers stuttering under the first button of my pants to meet the thumb on top, he’s an expert on the fastenings and stays of my clothes by now. Two of his heartbeats and the depression of his palm is teasing the tip of my cock. Well trained. Loll my forehead against his shoulder and let him spread my fluid down the shaft and back up again. Press my mouth into the cleft just behind his ear.

“What if I did fulfill that dream? Would you take me with you to the library so we could hold hands and snuggle while your friends plotted my death to my face? Would you tell them you lost your virginity to me? Would you tell them it was rape, but it’s ok because you’re over it now?”

“Shut the…” thrust two fingers into the hollow of his collarbone, his screech might be a new note I have’t heard before.

“You will speak when I consent, and not otherwise. The same lesson every time. What will it take for you to learn? “ Skim my lips over the bone just above the two new, maroon blemishes.

“Two down in your little group on the virginity score…hm, Willow hasn’t been plucked yet has she, boy? Maybe I can make it three…” the incandescent pleasure on my cock has disappeared, and his fingers ball in the material of my shirt.

“Leave her alone…” it is just so choked and strained, tragic in it’s futility, that I can feel the laugh welling up.

My fingers settle around his throat and compress his trachea just enough to keep him silent.

“Scared or jealous?” rake my human teeth over his bottom lip and call the blood to his mouth. “You really are so easy. Double entendre, do you know what that means?” the laugh won’t hide anymore, rolls around enveloping both of us.

The playing is annoying me now. Constrict his airway completely, not enough pressure to rupture the bloodvessels in his eyes or crush his windpipe. Holding his weight at his throat because he has gone limp. He wants death far too much to get it from me today, besides I’m after something else.

His lips losing color, parted to gasp air he’s not getting, cover his mouth with mine and ease my grip enough to suck some of the carbon dioxide from his lungs, suckle the staleness and Xanderfear. Relent slightly to let him get a half breath. Just enough to keep him with me and not out cold. Whip my free hand down to stroke him through his frayed, cotton boxers, and then rip the fabric away. Even twenty seconds from death-throes his cock dances in my grip.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” loosen my fingers again and let him have another breath, a lungful this time. “You wanted to feel your life slip away with one of my hands around your throat and the other on your cock?” Punctuate this with 5, 6, measured strokes, and my fingers are coated with viscous semen so thick it’s almost solid. “Your body betrays you every time, even if you refuse to form the words.” Trail a line of his own come across his lips and with my finger and lean in to lap it up with my tongue.

“The taste of you is what I will miss the most when I finally do kill you, boy.”

The struggle is breaking forth in earnest now, two ticks from passing out – in that constriction of his heart, the strained, laborious clench flooding his body with death-terror and pheromones I rupture his jugular, and we are both collapsing. My mind hazing over with bloodlust and the perfection of his life-force flowing into me. The world does not exist, there is only me and this boy who does not push my head away but instead clasps me tighter.

Xander memories are tenacious, unfolding for me petal by petal like carnivorous flowers, waiting for the one thought they can snatch and lure me to them through. He isn’t dead, but I still miss the way he tastes.



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