ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

My Dark Life Take 1
by ethrosdemon

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: R for dark themes and mean thoughts
Pairing: Angel/Buffy (Oh my god, no, I did not do that!)
Feedback: Bash away, chickadees
Dedication: To Lar for inviting me to this shiny, new list.
Note: unbetaed 15 minutes fic may contain many errors, all mine. Oh yes, there has also been beer. Buffy rituals and beer. Angel POV Season 2
Improv: vanilla, ocean, cotton, sympathy

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While we were together, before I lost my "soul", long beforeshe sent me to hell, I pictured her inner-landscape as a undulating, blue to green to grey to blue again ocean. I yearned to reach my hand in and pull back wet fingers, and KNOW. Know what it was to be a transcendentally gloryfilled child full of passion and a sun-filled existence, and pure pure pure LIFE.

When my fingers brushed the center what they drew back instead was the tar of need, clinging to my psyche and wakefulness. She made me aware of her in every second and every non-breath every non-heartbeat. Miring my feet and thought to her ocean of greedy taking. She thought I could walk on water, I was walking on the solidity of dependency. She bound me to her with the nails of the thought that I justwasn't looking hard enough, that one time I would reach in and there would be her sea rolling towards me and the tide would sweep me up and away to a place where I could feel the life pulse again within instead of without.

Realisation came upon me steadily through groping and stolen kisses more than anything. Away from humans for so achingly long, not knowing the new customs and behaviours. The caresses began and proceeded forward with some kind of rule of law. They became all there was between us besides the nightly dispatching of my kindred. Her lead, as in everything. I never learned the rules of teenage petting and vanilla sex. That was never my scene, and it won'tever be again. You could say I got my rise from the pained edge even before my death. So, she showed me, pulled me along on the progression of over the shirt, under the shirt, bra on, bra off, outside of the thighs, top of the thighs, inside the thighs. That cadence of touch culminated in me fucking her, oops I mean making love to her with her however that lameass phrase goes, and then fucking anything that had a hole with a pulse or without for months on end. That little foray into teen angst did leave me with a brand new personality trait, however (and if you want to be stickler for specifics also a few hundred more on my body count that has me in indentured servitude to some faceless, nameless entities) my fetish for cotton panties. Three sets of Cordelia's have a new home inmy bottom drawer, her poverty had more welcome outcomes than compassion for the downtrodden, too little money for silk.

Not a lot a sympathy in my audience for this type of confession. Especially not for someone that is, in fact, a demon after all. That's what demons do, rend and tear and steal innocence. Pretty literal on the last count in this case. What the proverbial someone would like to hear less is that she stole something from me as well. She snatched away any belief I could ever have that behind the smiles and the wide-eyes of Innocents lay something deeper, more meaningful. And, in the end, isn't that far more brutal and frightening for everyone else?



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