Some NC17 and slash content
MASKS
"Angel's just a mask you're forced to wear."
How right had he been, that impertinent, insufferable, precious, sneering young man? More right than Angel can ever admit to anyone, not even himself.
What would they say if they knew? If they could see the darkness bubbling there underneath his heart?
It's worse now. He's so alone. No one knows. No one can ever know. He can speak of it to no one and all it can do is grow there, digging roots deep, deep down into the darkness...
And that impertinent, insufferable, precious young man is lost to him forever.
*************
AUTUMN
Wet leaves smell like the warm beginnings of death, he's always thought. No,
not always. Just since he died. He watches the wind pick them up and carry them
in the darkness, the streetlights illuminating the orange, the red, the brown
veins and bones.
What did you do with leaves? You raked them. You went out with your son and you raked them, and you watched him leap and play and jump into them. When he was six, or seven, or eight, you did this, and you laughed. Together, happy.
He never did this with his son. He never will.
*******************
THE NEW
He'd only had his body a week, and it felt good. Solid and fleshy. He could
touch things.
He could touch Angel, and he practiced this as soon as he got Angel to open
his door and let him in. Practiced it a lot, and was surprised at Angel's willingness.
Shirts and shoes on the floor, bedclothes warmed by electricity. This was the
life, Spike thought, bed and warmth and Sire naked spread out next to you, hands
a little wandery tonight...
"Your turn," Angel said, and pulled Spike on top of him.
"Well," said Spike, surprised. "This is new."
*********************
CREATION
The pencil moves over the paper, echoing the smooth lines of his body. It's
like touching him, almost, the creation of the picture an act almost as intimate
as sex.
He is stretched out over the bed, and Angel's pencil caresses the outstretched
arm, the line of side and his flank, the smattering of hair over his chest,
the definition of muscle beneath the skin. He is beautiful--why did it take
Angel so long to notice?
Lean legs, thighs, calves, a turn of masculine ankle. One thing is missing. The scar. But Wes doesn't know he ever had it.
**************
KYRUMPTION
"See? I told you it would not be unpleasant to allow me access to your weapons."
Angel moans. Groo's hand is down Angel's pants and is doing something decidedly interesting in there. "What do we tell Cordy?"
Groo's fingers work backwards between Angel's thighs and Angel's eyes roll up in his head. "I believe," says Groo seriously, "that the coming together of warriors on the field of battle is a common occurrence, which she will most assuredly understand."
"It's not a field of battle, it's a damn Armani dressing room...Jesus, Groo, do that again..."
Groo grins, and does it again.
********************
JUSTICE
The boy does well. Moves well, avoids claws and teeth, wielding the curved blade with sleek precision. Holtz watches. Steven will either live through the encounter, or he won't.
Later, he helps Steven wring blood out of the soft leather of his shirt. Sews the gash in the boy's abdomen closed while Steven clenches his teeth on a stick. Brave, the boy is. Strong. He is morally pure and he understands what evil means. He has been perfectly molded into something his father never could have made him.
But he will never replace what Angelus took. Justice cannot be served.
***********************
PEACEFUL
She left him alone there in the office, because she had to. The sensations faded slowly-the cool strength of his body, his hands clutching her. Spirit, she discovered, could not weep.
There was a light. (Do you see a light? Go toward it!) It covered and enveloped her, slid along her skin, filled her with joy unlike anything she had ever experienced. Beauty, love, peace, perfect, unassailable happiness. Where nothing could ever touch her again, where nothing could invade her or change her-or use her, ever again.
They left her with one gift-the taste of his mouth.
*************************************
WATER, AIR, EARTH, FIRE
It's so cold. So goddamn cold.
He can't breathe. He doesn't need to, but it's nice to know he can. He can feel the pressure, millions of gallons of water pressing down, pressing in. He has fallen all the way to the bottom; he heard the heavy box strike the earth. Days ago. Days?
What time is it?
He has never been so cold. Never. There is no air. Only water, everywhere, dense against the square of glass above his face.
Think of warm hands tracing your body. A soft, open mouth sending fire through your blood...
Think of Wesley.
***************************
PILLOW TALK
Wes lies in Angel's arms. The room is warm and thus so is Angel. He closes his eyes, drawing in the odd odor of satiated vampire.
"I didn't think you'd ever forgive me," he blurts out, and his voice cracks a little.
"For what?" Angel asks. He shifts in the bed, his arm crooking over Wesley's shoulder, playing with his hair.
"For taking Connor."
Angel can only stare at him. Wesley understands why-he's not supposed to know. But he does. He remembers.
Angel regards him quietly for a moment, then says, his fingers curling into Wesley's hair, "I haven't."
******************
He smells the blood before he sees the victim, struggling, vamp at her throat. The vampire is dispatched with a quick thrust of the stake, the dust covering his coat.
Dammit. More dry cleaning.
The girl lies unconscious on the ground. The alley smells thickly of garbage but the blood smell slices through, going straight to his primal hunger.
He kneels next to her to check her pulse. It patters softly against his fingertips. She's alive. She'll come to in a few minutes.
He has blood on his fingers. He looks at it. He's alone.
He licks his fingers clean.
**********************
THESE PRECIOUS THINGS
He opens the drawer and fingers the contents. A small cloth diaper. A little flannel blanket. Tiny clothes. Beneath the carefully folded items is an album of photographs.
He opens the book. Himself and Cordy, smiling, bent over Connor's small self. The light in the picture backlights the soft fuzz of blonde hair.
He has no photographs of Connor as an adult. But he has pictures. Drawings, of Connor sullen, Connor angry, Connor brooding.
There. Connor smiling.
"What are you doing?"
The voice behind him catches him by surprise. Wesley. He puts the book back and locks the drawer.
"Nothing."
**********************
MEMORIES
Angel braces his hand against Wesley's shoulder as he shoves into him from behind, and Wes looks down at the fingers curled around his cock. God, this seems so familiar.
But they haven't done this before. He's just ended up here because Angel found him half-drowning in whisky and memories of Fred that have been devoured by a birdlike goddess with ghostly blue eyes.
Angel thrusts into him, and it hurts, and it feels so Goddamn good, and Wes is sure he's felt this deep burn before, and before it can completely confuse him he closes his eyes and comes.
****************
SLIP OF THE TONGUE
Lilah sits in Wesley's bed watching him sleep. He hasn't shaved in at least four days and he smells of whisky. She tweaks the sheet slightly so she can look at his bare ass.
She's still not sure why she keeps coming back. She doesn't think she loves him. He has a slim, sleek body and a good cock, and a lot of pain he can pound into her, night after night, his eyes blank, not registering her.
But she'll never look at him the same way again.
Because last night, in the throes of passion, he called her Angel.