Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,
Snow
sweptawaybayou

  • Mood:
Yea! Took off the chains from the KIA. Hopefully I won't get stuck going back to pick up the oldest at work. The roads are pretty clear, just the side streets still suck.
Finished another Angel Drabble last night. Tried for dark fic w/slash. Don't know if I succeeded. But I like it.
Now, if I could just get to some dialogue. My Angel muse does. not. like. to. talk. at all.
He's very quiet, broody and intensly sexy. I've got to get that man talking! I want dialogue!! And then all the intensly sexy stuff. Or maybe the other way around. I don't care, as long as there is some dialogue in there SOMEWHERE!!

It's pretty short, so I'll post the link here. . .


Touching Air

By Snow


It was cold.
He stood in the cemetery. Snow collecting in his hair, on his shoulders.
Big fat flakes, full of moisture and ice.
It didn’t melt when it landed on his face, his strong jaw, his cheekbones, his lips.
Just drifted on him.
As it did on the carved head stones, the elaborate stone angels and crosses that surrounded him in the night.
No plumes of breath came from his mouth.
He did not fidget.
He did not move.
And soon the snow was covering his black duster. Catching in the folds of his arms, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. Burying his black boots.
Occasionally he would slowly blink. Long lashes dislodging the ice crystals that had built up around his dark brown eyes. Keeping his view of the tombstone directly in front of him crystal clear.

It was quiet.
He fancied that he could hear the corpses sighing and shifting in their deep graves around him. Warm in the cold earth, resting on their soft, satin pillows. Dressed in the best outfit their relatives could find.
Waiting for their God to come claim their souls. Whether they had believed, or not.
Because the Gods do not require you to believe in Them.
That’s not what makes Them real.
What makes Them your judge and jury.
What makes Them your eternity.
Most Gods don’t give a shit what happens to you.
They are just in it for the fun.

And we are all pawns.
Checkers. Pegs. Little silver top hats and dogs being pushed around Their big colorful square game boards. Trying to dodge the die when they are thrown wildly, randomly from above.
Wanting to miss the go to jail space. Hoping to land on payday.
Trying to not get sent back home.
And having to start the game all over again.
And again.
And again.

How many times had he started over?

Angel felt the frigid night wind blow around him. As if trying to make sense of this intruder into its’ empty world. It was well past midnight. It was well below zero. The wind should’ve had the cemetery to itself. Should’ve been able to play amongst the dead, run past the crypts, dance with the snow alone.

//I belong here too//

No. Not here. Not on hallowed ground. He knew he deserved desecration for his sins. Knew he deserved to suffer forever.
Lose everything. Friends. Lovers.
Over and over. And over.
Never really hoping for redemption.
Fuck the Prophecy. Fuck the Shanshu.
He would give it all back. He had given it all back. More than once.
To be a warrior. To be a Champion.
To help. To serve. To die.
Over and over. And over.

Stray thoughts crept into his consciousness. Sneaking past his self-imposed barriers. Crawling under the zip wires he’d stretched. Stepping daintily over the well-hidden land mines.
All he’d so carefully placed in an attempt to come here and just mourn.
He was not here to remember.
And there were so very many memories. Too many. Too long of a life lived.
Sometimes he was sure his head would explode with them.
Brains were not made to contain this much.

This pain. This happiness.
This touch. This kiss.
This love. This anger.
This confusion. This laughter.
This hurt. This rage.
This passion. This awe.
This lust. This smile.
This loneliness.

This Goddamn loneliness.

He couldn’t avoid them. They took the well-worn paths. He gave a mental sigh.

Angel remembered being warm once upon a time.

Before Darla. Before the demon inside. He remembered what it felt like to breathe. To feel his heart beating in his chest. To feel blood rushing through his veins at the site of a beautiful horse, a perfect royal flush, a fine set of breasts held in his hands, crushed up against his bare skin. He remembered sweat pouring from his brow as he danced, fucked, fought, lived. He remembered drinking strong dark ale until the dawn lightened the sky. He remembered the bartender pushing him out the tavern. He remembered walking crookedly home, singing to himself. Meeting his father at the door.
His anger.
Their anger.
The bitter taste of disappointment, of dishonor spilling from the other man into him. Turning the beer in his stomach to acid. The hope in his heart into loss. Hadn’t he ever tried to be good? Hadn’t he ever tried to do what the old man asked?
There had to be a time that he’d been what his father wanted. A time when the steel gray eyes had lit up with love at the sight of him. A time that he’d been smiled upon. But if there was, he couldn’t remember. It was lost in the drunken brawls, the losing wagers, the skirts of the all too willing maids and whores.

He remembered being warm.

Angel remembered being hungry.

He remembered waking in the dark. Absolute dark. Poke yourself in the eyes just to see if they’re open dark. A raging thirst coursing through him. Feeling the rough pine just inches above his head, around his body. Scratching at it with his nails until the blood ran freely from his fingers. A drop falling in his mouth as he screamed and screamed and screamed.

The instant it touched his tongue he knew.
He knew what he was. He knew what he needed.
He knew what he had to do.
What he could do.
He never screamed again.

Climbing out of the dirt. The night surrounding him.
The scents. The vision. The sounds. The strength.
And Darla. Darla. Darla.
Had she ever looked as good to him as a human? She sparkled with his new sight. Her blue eyes laughing at him. Her blonde hair shining like a flame. Her red, soft lips. Her mouth. The white skin of her throat. The lush curve of her breasts.
No wonder he’d stayed with her for so long. Followed so desperately after her when he was ensouled. She was the first thing he’d seen when he’d started the game again.
And he wanted to eat her up.
So very hungry.
She’d known of course. She’d always been able to see right through him. She pointed him in the direction of his first meal and watched.
And how he had eaten.
And how it had tasted.
The fear. The adrenaline. The complete and utter terror.
Catching the smaller man in his large hands. Crushing the neck with his new strength. Squeezing right through to the bones. The blood pouring out and over. He’d ducked his head down and drank. And drank. And drank. Taking the warmth into him. Taking the life into him. Licking his fingers after he’d let the drained body fall. He couldn’t get enough. He could never get enough. And he couldn’t wait to do it again.

He remembered being hungry.

Angel remembered fucking.

He laughed bitterly inside his mind. Spike’s vicious, beautiful, sharp face swam before his eyes.
His Childe.
Always his bitch.

If Spike had only known how many times Angel had taken it up the ass.

From his father.
From the Master.
From Darla.
From The Powers That Be.
From the Devil in Hell.
From Humanity.

If he’d only known.
Perhaps Spike would’ve understood his constant need to dominate. To take. To possess.
To torture the younger vampire. Tie him up. Chain him down.
Whips. Knives. Belts. Holy Water.
Until the blood dripped steadily.

Then licking the tears that fell. Kissing the cuts. Stroking the need.
Lips upon lips. Desperation.
Slamming his cock into Spike. Mouth. Ass.
Reaching around to touch him. Reassurance in the hardness he found there that he was wanted.
Crushing himself against Spike’s smooth, hairless chest. His whipcord strong body.
Holding him tight.

// yes . . . yes. . . ah . . . good . . . there . . . Angel . . . //

Whispers. Growls. Kisses.
He could’ve lived on Spike’s kisses.
On his mouth. Slow. Sensual. Deliberate.
He never hurried.
Spike may have lived fast and hard, may have fucked like a demon, may have killed like a machine, but he kissed every single time like he never would again.
Like every kiss was the last. Like every kiss was the end.
He missed Spike’s kisses.

He remembered fucking.

Angel remembered joy.

He remembered it coming in the strangest package.
Darla.
Pregnant.

Impossible/Reality

Killing herself to have his child. To deliver his baby.
Leaving him with a tiny, perfect person to hold. To raise. To protect.
A being that loved his demon face.
He would sit for entire nights just watching Conner sleep.

// . . . Connor . . . //

He had named him. Angel had never named anything.
Not a boat. Not a dog. Not a car. Not a goldfish.
Never had anything before to name.
And now this.
Tiny, perfect person.

He would cradle him for hours. Just listening to his son’s heart beat. Watching him breathe.
Feeling as though his chest couldn’t expand anymore with the love it held for this child.
Feeling as though his ribs would break outward.
Crying from this gift.

//wasn’t it complete pain/joy/worry??//

Such a short time in his life to contain such a powerful emotion.
And then it was over.
Wesley.
Holtz.

Connor was gone.

He’d come back. But it was never the same again.
In the end, he’d given Connor his family.
His life. His choice of realities.

He remembered joy.

And Angel started the game again.

Angel remembered hate.

The burning, aching, tearing need to hurt. Maim. Kill.

Lilah. The Senior Partners. Holland Manners.
Darla. Druscilla. Spike. Lindsay. Holtz.
Nathan Reed. The Beast. The Master.
The Devil in Hell.
God.

Just a few of the demons/humans/deities/dead now that had brought Angel to exquisite rage.
Fury. Madness.
That had brought forth what had made Angelus such a accomplished killer.
Psychotic Methodical Rage. With Humor.

Angelus’ ability to kill without caring.
Rape without a conscious thought. Torture for endless hours/days/nights/weeks.
Angels’ ability to kill because he cared.
Rape with a conscious reason. Torture forever without speaking.

And laughter throughout. At the pain. At the blood. At the cause.
Angel knew he killed with more passion, raped with more intent, tortured with more art, more feeling, than Angelus could have ever dreamed.
Because he had a soul.
That somehow the very curse that haunted him, made him a more efficient demon.

When Holland and Lindsay had brought Darla back from whatever void/hell he’d sent her to, when they had teased and taunted Angel with his Sire. When they flaunted her undeserved humanity at him.
They had caused a honing of Angel’s spirit. A tempering of his soul. Created a new being.
And they had paid.

// . . . not Angel . . . not Angelus . . . neither . . . both . . . at once . . . //

One with his life.
One with his hand.

Oh yes, he remembered hate.

Angel remembered love.

Buffy. Blonde. Tiny. Strong.
Righteous. Even when she was wrong.
Her warm skin. Her hesitant touch. Light. Feathers.
Her baby soft smell. Sweet. Innocent. Pure. Undefiled.
Until he took her.
Claimed her.
Like making love to one of Dru’s china dolls.
So careful. So fragile.
There was no fucking here. Angel had to be aware of every movement he made.
Every stoke. Every bite. Every lick. Everything.
She was the Slayer, yes, but she was still human.
And he hadn’t been this close to a human without blood pouring for two hundred years.
And perhaps that’s why he lost his soul with her.
That clarity of thought. That awareness. That conscious effort.
There was no losing of himself in the taste, smell, feel.
Deliberation.

//. . . Angel . . .what is. . . ? . . .oh . . .my . . .God . . .//

Powerful stuff. Being someone’s first. Treading on hallowed ground.
Taking what can never, ever be replaced.
Angelus had fucked virgins. By the handfuls.
But he’d never made one come.
Never cared if they did.
Never brought sighs, gasps, trembles of the first pleasure.
At least, not to anyone still alive at that moment.

He remembered falling in love with Buffy.
Absolutely no fighting the feeling.
Astonished when it was returned.
Wanting to die for her. Willing to die for her.
Wanting to spend his every waking moment with her.
Willing to take a back seat to her stupid, young friends.
As long as he could see her face.
Hear her voice. Smell her.

Angel learned.

When he felt the same responses starting with Cordelia, he distanced himself.

// . . . Cordy . . .dark . . . cutting . . . beautiful . . . //

Still willing to die for her, but not wanting to.
Still wanting to see her, but not needing to.
Wishing that she would find someone. So he could let her go.

// . . . Angel . . .need you . . .love you . . . //

// . . . no you don’t . . . //

He would never experience perfect happiness/bliss/love again.
Because of Buffy. Because of Angelus.
Because no matter what he did, who he loved, how many times, how many ways,
he came inside of another,

// . . . Faith . . . Lindsey . . . Darla . . . Gwen . . . Kate . . . //

There would always be that pain. That hurt. That shame.
There would always be, in his mind, that very picture of shattered emotions.
A broken heart.
Buffy.

He remembered love.

But not very often.

Angel had let the tombstone blur. Tears freezing on his cheeks before they reached his jaw.
He wiped his face with his hands, clumps of snow falling off his arms, his shoulders.
He shook his head, dislodging the ice from his head and hair.
The wind had stopped. The night was still.
The tree branches around him creaked with the weight of the wet snow.
The memories had deserted him finally. Leaving him empty and drained.
The words focused sharply, suddenly, in front of him.

Beloved Son
Liam
1727 – 1753
God Be With You


If only it had been that easy.

Angel started the game again.


~Fini~


and if anyone has any ideas on how to get a silent muse talking, let me know!

;)
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