"I
want to get off one time and not apologize..."--Third Eye Blind, Faster
It had
been a long day, and Angel wanted nothing more than to just relax in a
good,
hot shower. He ached from swinging his
axe for seemingly hours on end, hacking heads and various other body
parts off
extremely vicious and odoriferous demons. Not to mention the smell of
sewage
that still clung to him. And his coat. Cost a mint to dry-clean the
damn thing,
too.
Then
there had been the meeting. People in suits looking at him like he was
something to be avoided or ignored, while he patiently explained that
he'd
never had to fill out paperwork in the past to kill demons well-known
for their
baby-eating tendencies.
Maybe
he would have made a better impression if he hadn't smelled like a
sewer.
He
stripped, letting his clothes fall in a disordered pile on the floor.
His new
penthouse apartment had a good, roomy shower, at least. Room for three,
he
thought, not that there would ever be an opportunity to find out. And
jets--ten
of them. Hedonistic, he thought. He loved it but didn't like to admit
it.
He
turned on the water, adjusting it so it was steaming hot. He was
cold--he was
always cold--and the too-hot water, pounding from ten different angles,
burned
for a moment before his skin adjusted.
He
stood for several long seconds, just feeling the heat, the water
pounding
against him. It was like being inside a waterfall. It almost made him
feel
alive.
His
skin was oversensitized by now, the pounding jets of water almost
hurting him.
He let it. It felt good. The intense sensation made fire begin to crawl
through
his belly, thick and liquid.
It had
been far too long. Since the Sisters. Not that he hadn't enjoyed that,
but once
every two years just wasn't sufficient. Plain and simple--his body was
craving
sex. Badly. It wasn't fair, he thought, that he could be dead and still
be so
horny.
The
mere presence of the need made him feel guilty. One more thing he had
no
control over. At least it was a human thing. But if the church
teachings he'd
grown up on held any truth, he could end up in hell ten times over
based on the
sin of self-abuse alone. Forget the killings and torture.
It
didn't matter to him any more. If he was going to hell--again--it would
be for
flaying nuns and eating them alive, not for jacking himself off one or
four
hundred times too many. Plain and simple.
He
soaked his hair, shampooed and conditioned. Dug his fingers into his
scalp,
scrubbed until it hurt. Far too aware of his body, his growing arousal,
his
cock thickening, rising...
He
soaped himself thoroughly, trying to make it straightforward and
utilitarian.
No such luck. He looked down, at the somehow accusatory regard of his
cock, and
gave a resigned sigh.
He
wasn't completely erect yet, but damn close, the glans mostly exposed
by now as
his foreskin retracted along his hardening shaft. He cupped his
scrotum, lifted
it, feeling the weight of his testicles as he maneuvered them. The heat
in his
loins had become insistent, impossible to ignore. His whole body was
clenching,
aching for some kind of release.
He
supposed there was no point fighting it. He sighed again, and braced
his free
hand against the wall.
He
pressed and rolled his testicles, feeling the need rise in his groin,
wrapping
around his loins, pooling. Insistent. Demanding. His fist clenched
against the
wall and he closed his eyes.
Buffy.
No. Couldn't think about Buffy. Too much. But that was where his mind
went, as
if it were an instinct. His hand on his balls became her hand, her
mouth
drawing his testicles in, one at a time. . .
He
forced his eyes open. Too much. Even now, with so much time and
space--so much
shit--between them, it was more than he could handle. It had been more
than he
could handle then. So much emotion, and the hopelessness of it... He
remembered
carefully silent fellatio in her girlish bedroom, holding her head
gently,
caressing her face as she swallowed. Her green eyes smiling up at him.
He so
afraid of the pure love swelling inside him--
He
tipped his head back and clenched his hand on his cock. No point to any
of it
except to get it the fuck over with. Holding himself too tight,
thrusting
brutally through his fist. He could hurt himself this way, and had, and
did,
the delicate edge of his foreskin tearing in a sharp stab of pain as he
handled
himself too roughly, too vindictively. But the pain, the smell of his
own
blood, just aroused him that much more, and he stiffened, his body
convulsing,
the sudden intensity of the release making him cry out involuntarily.
God, it
had been too long, and the orgasm seemed to clench and rip through
every muscle
of his body. He felt himself bucking, saw the white come splattering
against
the wall of the shower, but it seemed to no longer have anything to do
with
him. It was just a fist clenched around his body, his soul, wringing
him out.
You're
pathetic, so fucking pathetic, no wonder nobody wants you no wonder
you're
reduced to this, you're worthless, you always have been, I am ashamed
to call
you son... Demon, demon you are no one you are nothing you are in
hell...
He
howled and slammed his forehead into the wall, feeling the pain,
feeling
everything pulse out of him, tearing out of the depths of his soul, his
soul
which was supposed to make him different, make him special, but which
just made
him hurt so Goddamn much...
His
hips bucked and his buttocks clenched and he forced his eyes open,
watching the
last of the sticky come spurt out of his body. Not even him, he
thought, nothing
to do with him at all. It was cold and dead, worthless like the rest of
him. He
swallowed hard, letting himself relax, finally. Catharsis, it was
supposed to
be. He wasn't sure if it served that function. He didn't feel healed.
He just
felt empty.
He
pulled the main shower head down from the holder and sprayed the wall
clean. He
was still bleeding. It would heal. Five minutes from now he'd be intact
again.
Even injury left no mark on him anymore.
When
had he lost the ability to feel? But he knew the answer to that
question, and
he couldn't even feel the pain from that, because he had shoved it down
so far
inside him.
The
come on the wall had blood in it. He washed it down the drain. Dead.
Always had
been, always would be.
Except
that once.
END.