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sunnydale waitress

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(take me over your knee)

[13 Jun 2002|03:27am]

I love her. Jesus God, I do. She makes me feel so good and warm and perfect and wonderful just by being around and Christ I love her.

(take me over your knee)

[21 May 2002|11:16pm]
my dad wants me to take testosterone supplements, because i told him that girls that have more testosterone are better at math and sports, and are thinner and more confident.

i also told him they have facial hair, but that part didn't seem to faze him.

i don't like me. and i hate him. but i don't like him not liking me.

i want somebody and i need somebody to help me, i need somebody right now and there's nobody. pleasepleaseplease i'm always there for you i need somebody, i need you now why aren't you here?

(take me over your knee)

[29 Mar 2002|12:14am]
[ mood | disgruntled ]



Don't suppose anyone knows how to get around this, hmm?

(1 spanking | take me over your knee)

auld lang syne, interlocking sequences, take . . . something [23 Mar 2002|01:48am]
[ mood | aggravated ]


Felicity's Willow, Cordelia, Michael, and Reagan, and I'm Buffy, the OR (hey look ma! I'm a group of doctors!), Chris, and Lexi. You can usually tell because my abuse of the English language crosses boundaries of not only grammar, but reason, as well.

Feedback is highly appreciated, as I'm needy and about to shoot my computer with a fucking anti-aircraft gun, Vincent, because my fuckoff tables aren't working eight hundred times.


0:02 before Surgery: OR

“How’re his vitals?”

“Had a little trouble while we were putting him under, but he’s stabilized.”

“So we’re go?”

“I wanna keep the anesthesiologist here to watch him, just in case, but I think we’re fine.”


0:04 into Surgery: Buffy

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, and I can’t feel anything, can’t make the room focus. It’s like I’m not even here, like I’m watching everything from underwater.

I wonder if he’s dreaming.


0:18 into Surgery: Lexi

“Lexi, you’re going to have to be reasonable about this . . .”

I don’t want to talk to Her. I know She’s not good. Everybody whispers black about Her. Everybody knows.

I put my hands over my ears. “Go away!”

She just raises an eyebrow and smirks, but She does leave when Eve comes in the room. She looks concerned. “Everything okay, Lex?”

She’s giving off red. I see that kind of heat around only her, because of her daemon blood. Daddy taught her how to control it, but I can still see it when she’s upset. It’s the color of raw strawberries now, hot like the sun even from here.

“Are you okay?” she says again, because she thinks I didn’t hear her the first time. There’s hurting, in her voice, and when she speaks, the red cools to yellow for a minute.

“Yes.”

She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she looks away and the yellow fires to red again as she leaves. She shuts the door, and She comes back.

“It’s funny for you to be afraid of her,” I say, and She looks angry. She doesn’t give off a color. Not a new one. Only just black, like they whisper about Her.

“I’m not afraid of her.”

But She is. She’s afraid of all of them, because She’s afraid that everything won’t go perfectly, that they’ll mess things up. Well, they might.


0:22 into Surgery: Willow

I find myself remembering things: how Angel used to show up in his leather coat and say a couple cryptic things and I always thought he was cute and he and Buffy were meant for each other. How it was obvious right from the beginning. The look on his face the first time he saw the twins. The way he was a second father to all our kids, and because that wasn’t enough, as if he had more adoration than children to adore, he became a teacher. How he never seemed to believe that everything was as good as it was.

And maybe it wasn’t.

I find myself remembering the last time we sat here, like this. The pain was so raw then. I’d hurt before, but when Joyce died . . . oh, what I felt was nothing compared to what Buffy went through, but it was still . . . something. All of a sudden she was gone, this part of my life. More of a mother, in some ways, than mine.

I find myself imagining life without Angel, and then I remember Buffy is sitting here and I am supposed to be helping her. But there is no help for that.

I want to curl my arms around her, but she’s always been untouchable when she’s hurting.


0:34 into Surgery: Chris

I think maybe I should touch her or something, but I don’t. She’s sitting away from me, next to me, yeah, but in a way that I know she doesn’t feel like she’s with me.

“Reagan.”

She doesn’t look at me, but she kinda turns her head a little, acknowledging that I’m here, maybe. Knowing that I’m here? Maybe that’s enough, that she knows. I don’t know.

“What.” It doesn’t sound like a question. Sometimes she talks like she doesn’t have emotions, like she doesn’t feel. I kinda get scared when she does that, cuz I don’t have anything that connects me to her anymore, I’m not sure that we’re even the same species. She gets like that and I feel like I’m with Warrior, Slayer, not my girlfriend, not my Reagan. It scares me, the kind of fear that you can’t fix.

“Is there . . . anything I can do? Maybe, do you want to talk about this?”

“You have no idea.” There’s emotion, there, but I’m not sure that it makes me feel any better. She sounds like she’s going to cry, like she’s going to break, and I don’t know if I can deal with that. She’s never done it before, and I don’t know how to help her, how to make it right.

I go for it, and touch her. Put my hand on her shoulder, pull her back against me, so that she fits against me and just falls into my hug. “I have no idea about what, baby?”

She feels cold and leaden in my arms all of a sudden, as though she could transform from soft, warm, living girl to hard icy steel at will, and felt that now was a good time to showcase her talents. “About . . . I can’t.”

“Reagan, I . . .”

“Get off me.” And all of a sudden, she’s crying, her too pale face in her hands, shaking in my arms, harder than a seismic jolt, steel then soft steel then soft, making half gasp half moaning noises and just shaking . . . I tighten my arms around her, trying to calm her, trying to give her something solid and sure and there . . .

“Get off of me.” I don’t know where she got that voice. It’s low and dark and primal and I can’t imagine it ever pairing with her face, coming out of those soft perfect lips.

Apparently, I didn’t move fast enough. Before I know it, she stands more quickly than any human can, and I’m against the wall on the other side of the room, sliding to the floor and landing hard against the wall. She seems farther than I know she is, eyes wide and tears down her cheeks, still shaking, still crying, but quietly, slowly, body stilling to a tiny tremble and eyes so wide . . . her lips tremble, and I can hear her breathe with a harsh gasp. Her arm’s still out from throwing me, and her eyes are just huge, and she looks so shocked, so scared . . .

“Chris.” She looks at her still extended arm, then draws it in close against her body, like she forgot about it until she saw it. She looks at me, trembling and scared, and starts to come to me, but then stops, shakes, looks like she can’t move. “Chris.”

I get up, okay, a little shakily, a little pain in my back, and go to her, take her hand, and use that to pull her to me, against me again. She melts, this time, and starts sobbing again.

“I’m so sorry . . . God, I’m so sorry, I . . . I didn’t . . .” she stops, looks up at me, extra pale cheeks looking luminescent and not quite real under the rain of tears washing over them. “I’m so scared. And everything’s wrong, and . . . and my dad . . .”

She cries, and I hold her, keeping her close and settling with her to the floor when her knees give. My girl.


0:47 into Surgery: Michael

They’re trying to distract me, all of them. Uncle Xander and Eve wanted to play Life, but it’s a stupid game and anyway, I don’t . . .

I want my dad. I know it’s stupid and I’m being a kid about this and I should just . . . buck up or something, like everyone else. But I want Dad, and I want Mom to come home. If they were home, maybe I could forget.

Dad never did those things. Dad isn’t like that. People are good or they’re bad and Dad isn’t . . .

I wonder what the surgery is like. I wish Uncle Xander would stop trying to cheer me up. I wonder if he knows . . . Not that there’s anything to know. Not that they would tell me if there was. Stupid little Michael. I know they’re trying to protect me. Look at them, offering to watch all my stupid movies and play my stupid games. Don’t they know it doesn’t matter?

Dad didn’t do those things. I know he didn’t. So why can’t he come home?


1:01 into Surgery: Buffy

“I think maybe we’ll . . . get s-some food. You know, sugar could . . . s-so we don’t get all . . . all shaky and stuff. Do you want anything . . . ? Will? Buffy?”

“Ooh! Yeah, snack cakes, cuz, you know, the sugar . . . you think they have donuts . . . ?”

After a while, all their talking just fades into itself, and its warm and fluid but far off, like when there’s a song you know playing in a radio in the next room. You can’t really hear it, but you know that it’s there, and what it is, and it’s not scary just incomplete.

I don’t care.

I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. Me? Not caring.

I just know that I can’t breathe, and that I’m having a little trouble feeling inside my body right now. I could give a flying fuck about snack cakes.

God, this isn’t me. Sorry, God. Sorry . . . whoever.

And they’re all looking at me . . . why are they all looking at me?

“Buffy? Buffy?”

And everything focuses suddenly, bursting through with bright Technicolor and Panasonic sound. They’re looking at me, and they’re looking concerned, and they’re talking so . . . they must have been talking to me for a long time.

God. I just need this day to be over with.

“Buffy?”

“Yeah. What? Sorry.”

And Tara starts on again, “No, don’t be sorry, it’s okay . . . we . . . w-we were just w-wondering if there was . . . if you wanted anything to eat,” but before she’s done asking me, I can hardly hear her again. And I’m drowning again, and I don’t know how, and they’re all getting further and further away and

Willow puts her hand on my shoulder and jerks me out of the water. “You should eat something. Keep your strength up.”

I’m still a little waterlogged, so it takes a little while to register the words I need to respond to her. “No . . . No.”

Great. Concern face. “You need to eat.”

“I can’t eat,” I whisper, and I wanna cry, and why are they all still looking at me? “I can’t. I won’t . . . I don’t think I’ll be able to keep anything down.”

And I do feel like I’m going to start to cry again, and the only thing I want is to be away from here, so they don’t see my face streaked with tears and my eyes red and why are they all still looking at me?

Wait. No. These are my friends. I love them, and they love me. They’re here to take care of me, and to . . . to be here for me, and for Angel.

God, I’m so sorry . . . I’m sorry, everyone. I don’t know what’s . . . what’s wrong with me.

I just need this to be over with.


1:23 into Surgery: Reagan

When he touches me, I don’t even feel it. Like I’m in a . . . cocoon. Like no one can touch me.

If no one can touch me, then no one can lie. Or is it only physical? Will I still be able to hear, to see . . . everything?

If I stay here, right here, and don’t move, then only he will touch me and since he can’t really . . . no more lies. No more . . . happily ever afters. No more it’ll be better soons. No more he’s evils.

He’s not evil. He’s Daddy. And nothing is going to be okay.

But it doesn’t matter. If nothing can touch me then it doesn’t matter. Does it?


2:08 into Surgery: OR

“Suction, please.”

“Suction.”

“Thank you . . .”

“Dr. Kearns, how’s he doing?”

“Blood pressure and pulse are both strong and stable. Breathing’s fine, too, settled down. Should be fine.”

“Do you have another appointment?”

“McAllister in twenty.”

“I think it’s alright if you leave . . . unless you think otherwise.”

“I’ll send someone to check on him in thirty.”

“Suction.”


2:39 into Surgery: Cordelia

I’m not good at the patience thing. I’ve never been good at the patience thing. He knows that. He knows . . . me.

Pull it together Chase. I look over at Buffy — even she is holding it together better than me or . . . no, I don’t believe that. She’s just not dealing. Not thinking. Maybe that’s the way to do it. Forget all that being strong crap. Forget smiling at people and looking perfectly put together. Forget dealing with things as they come at you. Just shut off. It seems to be working for her.

I know it’s not really working for her. And it wouldn’t work for me either. But it seems preferable to . . . to this. To this pretense that I’m . . . fine.

“Can I go talk to Mom?” Michael asks. I shake my head, not really sure why I volunteered to bring the kids here. We’re taking shifts at the house, at the hospital. Let them come for a few minutes if they want, see what’s going on — nothing — and then take them home, where they don’t have to see it, don’t have to smell that godawful, disgusting smell of . . . Wesley told me I shouldn’t come. But of course I’m Cordelia Chase (Wyndam-Pryce now, but I can’t call myself that . . . even if I always wanted to be a girl with two last names) and no one tells me I can’t handle it. I can handle anything.

I don’t think I can handle this. He knows that, he would know that. He would take one look at me and tell me to go home.

No, that’s not true. He would take one look at me and then he would take me home.

I can handle anything. Anything but this.


3:56 into Surgery: Willow

I feed her like a child, just take one more bite, you’ll feel better, really you will. She won’t feel better, but the last thing she needs is to get sick. I try and do the little things, because I can’t touch the big ones. So I make her eat when she doesn’t want to, and bring her water and get her to walk around. It’s like having a child, Chloe little again only Buffy doesn’t want to curl up in my arms and be comforted, she wouldn’t fit in my lap and if I push too hard I know she’ll snap. So I don’t push. Just a bite now and then, that’s all I ask. A word every half hour — that can carry over, if she says five then she can be silent for forty-five minutes. Just . . . something.

Her children come and go and she barely sees them. A child has no concept of anyone outside themselves and their parents — so Giles brought Sara and Lexi and Cordelia brought Michael and Eve and they all went away again, after hovering just out of her sight. She would have tried, had they come nearer. But she has nothing left for herself, much less for them.

I wish she could take comfort in them, if she can’t find it in me. If it was anything else, I think she could. But not this. All her strength, all her ability to give or take, all of it is with him.

So I make her eat and drink and walk and talk — just a little, just enough so that we both know she’s still alive.


4:48 into Surgery: Reagan

I want to go, to see. Everyone else went I should . . . I feel like I should go. As if somehow I’m being a better daughter if I sit in a white room and wait instead of in our pretty living room which Mom picked the colors for and Dad filled with old, beautiful things.

I hate hospitals, but so does Mom and she’s there. Everyone else went.

Sara told me that there was nothing to do there, no reason to go. They didn’t even talk to Mom, they didn’t want to disturb her. Apparently the same does not go for me; when she came home Sara took it upon herself to sit with me and talk, as if Chris was slacking in his job: keeping me in contact.

Chris is doing a very, very good job. Too good. I want to hide inside him, burrow right into his skin and take up residence. I think I would feel safe there.

I hate how he makes me feel safe; it makes it okay to feel, which I don’t want.

Sara does the same thing, though . . . differently. She came and sat cross-legged beside us and French-braided my hair, ignoring all protestations. Then she insisted Chloe come help, and Julianna and the three of them remembered childhood clapping rhymes I had long since managed to block out of my head. Giles found my guitar and came in, sitting nearby and strumming softly, all the songs he taught me when I was young.

I wanted to scream. What makes them think they can laugh, or play or . . . I didn’t want to finish that sentence.

I left the room. Chris followed me. I hate when he does that. And the way he folded me up close to his heart, as close as I could be without being part of him for real and how he made me cry.

I should go. If everyone else was strong enough, I should be too. But I just want to . . . to hide. I just want to hide.


5:21 into Surgery: Chris

And she’s blank canvas again, and I don’t know how she does it. I watched her with Sara and Chloe and Jules, and she met my eyes for a second, looking like a deer in the headlights. Help me . . . please help me . . .

But now, there’s not even that. There isn’t anything, and I don’t know if she’s even in there, or if she’s left her body, gone someplace else a little less painful.

I don’t blame her, but it scares me.

“I’m going,” she whispers, all of a sudden, and her eyes, her face flood with Reagan again, like maybe she’s a machine that can be turned on all at once, all lights going on at the same time.

“Going where?”

“To the hospital,” and her voice sounds like something dead.

“Look, you don’t have to . . .” because she looks like she’d rather die a thousand times than be back in that building again.

“Yes I do.” She stands, and looks back at me with that ‘help me’ look again. “Don’t follow me.”

And she goes, and the silence without her hurts so much more than the silence she carries with her.

I don’t follow her.


6: 12 into Surgery: Cordelia

It’s sick the things people do to themselves. Me included. Mostly me.

Wes told me not to come back, to stay there, help with the kids. I laughed at him. I am possibly the least comforting mother on the face of the planet. Jules told him to let me go, I wouldn’t be happy unless I had my way and I certainly wouldn’t be happy then.

Teenage children are a nightmare, especially when they’re just like you. My God I love her.

So I wait. Here. Willow and I exchange words once in a while, out of desperation or a sense of obligation. I tried to talk to Buffy, but she barely responded, not even seeming to hear me and I’m not in the mood for patience or being ignored.

I take one step, and then another. My shoes tap on the floor and I take another step, testing. Tap. Another. Tap.

I was stupid to come. Should have stayed with Wesley, or let him come. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. Tap. Tap. If I can do this one thing, if I can make it through these hours and be here then he’ll have to . . . Well if he wasn’t, I’d know. I’d just . . . I’d know. But if I stay here it’s like Murphy’s Law. If I’m prepared, nothing will go wrong. But if I’m not here, everything will go wrong.

Not that I really believe that. Tap. But I didn’t want to be here so of course I have to be. Like I can finally prove to him and to . . . to me and to everyone that I have changed. I, Cordelia Chase Wyndam-Pryce (three names, even better) am a good person.

He made me that. I want him to know I am that he . . . that he made me that. I want to be that.


6:43 into Surgery: Lexi

She went away after She got upset. I thought She’d come back, but She hasn’t. The air is so loud with everyone’s buzzing that it hurts, and I can hardly hear anything over it.

Reagan’s out hunting, even though it’s daytime. Looking for daemons, but trying to kill the bad things inside of her.

But she doesn’t know that. She will.

“Because she’s awake,” She says, coming back all of a sudden. All the roaring talk comes to a stop all at once when She enters the room, crowding it with black. Everyone fades to whispers, whispers about Her, whispers of black. “She’ll know everything.”

“Don’t hurt her,” I say, even though I know that She will.

She laughs. “Daddy should be done, soon.”

And then She’s gone, and the whispers come back into screaming, but the black doesn’t go away for a long time.


7:26 into Surgery: Michael

Stephan’s teaching me how to shoot. The angle to cock your wrist at, the amount of force to put behind the ball. I’ve made three in the row.

“Hey, why aren’t you on my team?” he asks with a grin. I’ve watched his team play, the way they pound across the court, pushing, twisting, finesse and raw power all in one. His team? “I coach at Sunnydale Junior High, you’ll be there next year, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well don’t forget to try out. You’re a natural.”

It’s because of Mom, I think about telling him. Because she’s special. I’m not but I’m still strong, fast. Better than the other kids, just a little.

If Dad was a vampire, then it might be from him. Not that Dad was a vampire.

I don’t say anything about it.

“Try again,” he urges and I do, winding up and letting go. The ball catches the rim, hovers there for a split second perfectly still. My breath catches — and then it falls. Out, not in. “Next time.”

Yeah, next time. Sara comes outside, slipping her arms around Stephan’s waist and leaning her head on his shoulder. He’s way taller than her, but I know she could beat him up. Or beat him at basketball, probably. She’s good at jumping. We used to play, but she always won.

I’ll be taller than she is in a few years. But she’ll probably still beat me. I want to just . . . be in a normal family for once. Then none of this would be happening.

“You guys having fun?” she asks.

“Your brother’s going to be varsity, I can feel it,” Stephan said, bending to kiss her. I glance away, a little embarrassed. It’s weird thinking of Sara kissing and stuff like that. Especially with Stephan. He’s so . . . perfect. Normal. Not like Sara’s a freak or anything but . . . it’s strange.

“Mmm. The Gryphon genes are strong in him,” she teased, walking over to try and give me a nougie. I move away but she catches me. Instead of the punishment she bends and kisses my hair and I freeze. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go inside.”

But I don’t want to go inside. Even the dark feels more normal than our house sometimes. Anyway, they’ll want me to . . . talk or something. But Sara insists, and Stephan agrees and it kinda worries me that I want to stay outside. Dad would have liked the dark, if he . . .

How much longer will this take?


8:18 into Surgery: Buffy

I can’t do anything but think of him. Willow’s trying to take care of me, I think, or maybe I’m just imagining that, imagining her trying to coax me into conversation, and Cordelia’s pacing, and Xander checking his watch and the clock and his watchandtheclockandhiswatch . . . but I can’t see anything but Angel. I remember seeing him the first time, gorgeous in an annoying sort of way, smiling up at me from the flat of his back, “Is there a problem, ma’am?”, and then me hating him for a whole second when he reminded me of my duty . . . “I love you” the first time, wet and dangerously close on his bed, voice so choked with emotion I thought he was breaking . . . and the next time, face tear-streaked, crying, still hurting and confused and innocent and so doomed, so dead . . .

A tube. Down her throat. I mean, there was a tumor, a brain tumor, but she had an

operation

and she’s fine now, shesbeenfine . . . a tube. Down her throat.

. . . the smell of his skin after making love the first time, his shudder, his gasp, his warmth . . . the smell when he came back from Hell, like dying things . . .

shesbeenfine

. . . and the poison, the smell of that, poisoned sweat sickly sticky cloying smell that made you need to wash and cry because you had sat so close to something that had already started to rot inside . . .

down her throat. an operation.

. . . the way he looked the first time I saw him in the sunlight for real, not a dream, face lit a thousand different ways all at once, and my heart screaming iloveyou . . .

i try not to but i can’t stop. close your eyes.

. . . the way he looked in the sun, lit end of the poker yelloworange when we went down to Juarez on Assignment for the Alliance, a favor for Whistler, almost living the old West while hunting daemons, his skin lit like that, white cotton man’s shirt open and leather holsters around his slim hips, a living cliché breathing cigarette smoke like a dragon lady but so so beautiful . . .

you’re just so pretty when

. . . at the prom, his arms around me and his eyes avoiding mine because he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to leave me but he had to . . .

close your eyes. a tube. down her throat. she had an operation and

. . . when the twins were born, his eyes then, his face, a new kind of light . . . the first time he touched them, their skin, pale like his, marveled at their eyes dark, like his . . .

it’s tradition. it’s not tradition. it’s genetics. you can’t have brown eyes by – it’s tradition.

you’re just so pretty

. . . and during my first labor, being so good, being so him, his hands wrapped around mine, holding me, keeping me in this reality, whispering into my ear “iloveyoubabyyou’redoingsowelli’msoproudofyouiloveyou” . . .

i try not to but i can’t stop.

. . . the ways his wounds healed shiny when he came back from Hell and how he cried when I touched them. How I couldn’t look him in the eyes . . .

close your eyes.

. . . afterwards because I was afraid of the change Hell had given them, the marring and twisting and wrongness in them . . .

she’s been fine

. . . and the way they are now and how they crinkle at the edges when he laughs and the way tears track down his face when he cries and the noise he makes . . .

a tube. down her throat.

. . . when he’s crying and the noise he makes when he’s coming and “hold me” and “if you’re going to the store, could you pick up” and “I’m worried about” and “I need” and “the kids” and “I love you” . . .

close your eyes.

. . . and the way he works his mouth when he’s nervous and when he’s kissing me and his hands on my back and in my hair and on my breasts and making dinner and holding the kids when they were babies and a sword like a samurai and my heart is in your hands and I love you and there was a tumor but she had an operation but she’s better now, she’s fine, she’s been fine . . .

“Mrs. Gryphon?”

And I’m flat through a stained glass ceiling and I’m back to white, back in the waiting room with the smell of antiseptic and the lights too bright and Willow coaxing and Cordelia pacing and Xander checking the time constantly and Reagan’s between my legs, and her head’s in my lap and my hands are in her hair and I’m petting her and I didn’t even know she was there and there’s someone saying my name and

“I’m Mrs. Gryphon.”

(1 spanking | take me over your knee)

Part Five, first person interlocking sequences (preview) [11 Mar 2002|12:04am]
[ mood | complacent ]


I don't know if I've found their voices, yet . . . tell me what you think.

0:04 into Surgery: Buffy

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, and I can’t feel anything, can’t make the room focus. It’s like I’m not even here, like I’m watching everything from underwater.

I wonder if he’s dreaming.


0:18 into Surgery: Lexi

“Lexi, you’re going to have to be reasonable about this . . .”

I don’t want to talk to Her. I know She’s not good. Everybody whispers black about Her. Everybody knows.

I put my hands over my ears. “Go away!”

She just raises an eyebrow and smirks, but She does leave when Eve comes in the room. She looks concerned. “Everything okay, Lex?”

She’s giving off red. I see that kind of heat around only her, because of her daemon blood. Daddy taught her how to control it, but I can still see it when she’s upset. It’s the color of raw strawberries now, hot like the sun even from here.

“Are you okay?” she says again, because she thinks I didn’t hear her the first time. There’s hurting, in her voice, and when she speaks, the red cools to yellow for a minute.

“Yes.”

She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she looks away and the yellow fires to red again as she leaves. She shuts the door, and She comes back.

“It’s funny for you to be afraid of her,” I say, and She looks angry. She doesn’t give off a color. Not a new one. Only just black, like they whisper about Her.

“I’m not afraid of her.”

But She is. She’s afraid of all of them, because She’s afraid that everything won’t go perfectly, that they’ll mess things up. Well, they might.


0:34 into Surgery: Chris

I think maybe I should touch her or something, but I don’t. She’s sitting away from me, next to me, yeah, but in a way that I know she doesn’t feel like she’s with me.

“Reagan.”

She doesn’t look at me, but she kinda turns her head a little, acknowledging that I’m here, maybe. Knowing that I’m here? Maybe that’s enough, that she knows. I don’t know.

“What.” It doesn’t sound like a question. Sometimes she talks like she doesn’t have emotions, like she doesn’t feel. I kinda get scared when she does that, cuz I don’t have anything that connects me to her anymore, I’m not sure that we’re even the same species. She gets like that and I feel like I’m with Warrior, Slayer, not my girlfriend, not my Reagan. It scares me, the kind of fear that you can’t fix.

“Is there . . . anything I can do? Maybe, do you want to talk about this?”

“You have no idea.” There’s emotion, there, but I’m not sure that it makes me feel any better. She sounds like she’s going to cry, like she’s going to break, and I don’t know if I can deal with that. She’s never done it before, and I don’t know how to help her, how to make it right.

I go for it, and touch her. Put my hand on her shoulder, pull her back against me, so that she fits against me and just falls into my hug. “I have no idea about what, baby?”

She feels cold and leaden in my arms all of a sudden, as though she could transform from soft, warm, living girl to hard icy steel at will, and felt that now was a good time to showcase her talents. “About . . . I can’t.”

“Reagan, I . . .”

“Get off me.” And all of a sudden, she’s crying, her too pale face in her hands, shaking in my arms, harder than a seismic jolt, steel then soft steel then soft, making half gasp half moaning noises and just shaking . . . I tighten my arms around her, trying to calm her, trying to give her something solid and sure and there . . .

“Get off of me.” I don’t know where she got that voice. It’s low and dark and primal and I can’t imagine it ever pairing with her face, coming out of those soft perfect lips.

Apparently, I didn’t move fast enough. Before I know it, she stands more quickly than any human can, and I’m against the wall on the other side of the room, sliding to the floor and landing hard against the floor. She seems farther than I know she is, eyes wide and tears down her cheeks, still shaking, still crying, but quietly, slowly, body stilling to a tiny tremble and eyes so wide . . . her lips tremble, and I can hear her breathe with a harsh gasp. Her arm’s still out from throwing me, and her eyes are just huge, and she looks so shocked, so scared . . .

“Chris.” She looks at her still extended arm, then draws it in close against her body, like she forgot about it until she saw it. She looks at me, trembling and scared, and starts to come to me, but then stops, shakes, looks like she can’t move. “Chris.”

I get up, okay, a little shakily, a little pain in my back, and go to her, take her hand, and use that to pull her to me, against me again. She melts, this time, and starts sobbing again.

“I’m so sorry . . . God, I’m so sorry, I . . . I didn’t . . .” she stops, looks up at me, extra pale cheeks looking luminescent and not quite real under the rain of tears washing over them. “I’m so scared. And everything’s wrong, and . . . and my dad . . .”

She cries, and I hold her, keeping her close and settling with her to the floor when her knees give. My girl.

(take me over your knee)

[10 Mar 2002|11:25pm]
[ mood | hopeful ]


Writing again. Something other than porn.

Ha.

Although, I have noticed that my so-called PWP is starting to turn into a character study.

Oh, fuck.

(1 spanking | take me over your knee)

FIC: BRASSED OFF [03 Mar 2002|01:48am]

TITLE: Brassed Off
AUTHOR: Sunnydale Waitress
RATING: NC-17. Sex, descriptions of, and violence in.
CHARACTERS: Buffy, Angel, Faith
PAIRINGS: B/A, A/F, B/F
SUMMARY: First person POVs. Joss gave us the perfect set up. Faith in leather pants, Buffy chained to the wall in Angel’s living room, a box of toys on the coffee table. I’m just finishing it.
SPOILERS: Season Three Faith arc, particularly Enemies
DEDICATIONS: To Sara, cuz she wanted porn.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: PWP. Pretty much completely. My first one. Be proud.
DISCLAIMER: “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and all related characters, storylines, etc. are solely the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, FOX 20th Century, and all related parties. No copyright infringement is intended.
FEEDBACK: lamia@stigmata.com
DISTRIBUTION: List archives. Anyone else, please just ask.


PART ONE – BUFFY

“You know, in all our time together, I can’t believe we never tried chains.” Angel smirked as he tightened the last manacle, locking it tight around my wrist with a smart click.

“You bastard.”

He rolled his eyes in a deeply exaggerated impression of Angelus. “Play nice, kitten. It’s gonna be a long night.”

I tried and pulled a little against the cuffs, the chains. They held fast, and nothing gave, not even a little bit. The son of a bitch.

He ran the back of his hand along the curve of my cheek, then smiled a little and turned away, leaving me angry and hurt and unable to do anything but watch him walk his pretty ass to Faith, sitting happily on the long stone coffee table in front of the mansion’s impressive fireplace. He handed her the key to my cuffs, dangling shining silver in the firelight from the long chain it was on, and she slipped it over her dark head.

“Is she a good fuck?” she demanded petulantly, looking up at him from her perch.

My stomach twisted around itself and sank.

He shrugged. “She was new when I had her. Not experienced at all.” He paused. I didn’t breathe. “But great muscles. A tug you wouldn’t believe.”

I felt myself getting hot all over, uncomfortable, itchy hot that stretches your skin, like your embarrassment’s trying to climb out through your pores. Faith just grinned. “Alright, B! Think you can crush a soda can in that little vice of yours?”

I thought maybe it had succeeded with bursting from my skin. I blushed more, and then turned my eyes away from them, couldn’t stand to look at them with them looking at me. “A soda can?” Angel asked, and I thought I might die right there on the spot, just from humiliation.

“I’m from a little dive of a neighborhood. Real hick ghetto of Boston. Gotta have something to do during the long winter nights . . .” she paused, trying to gage his reaction. “So I joined the Girl Scouts.”

I looked up at that. Embarrassment aside, this was not something to take lightly.

“Hard to imagine you as a Girl Scout.”

“Well . . . to be perfectly honest, it was mostly scouting for girls, but I did learn that neat little trick with the Pepsi can, not to mention a few other things that would make Miss Rebecca of Sunnyhell Farms over there blush all the way down to her soft, dimpled . . .” she paused again, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “. . . knees.”

Angel chuckled. “I’d kind of like you to prove that.”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “That I can make Miss Ne’er Do Wrong blush from stern to starboard? Cheeks to cheeks? Lips to lips?”

“No. I meant that thing you learned in Girl Scouts.”

She eyed him for a moment, then brought a hand up and briefly brushed her fingers down the zipper of his pants. I saw red for a minute, all anger senses on maximum. Hands off, bitch. “Yeah, well, I think I can prove it to you without offending some tree hugging recycling types, huh?”

“I’d much prefer it that way, but I’ll keep the Pepsi thing in mind in case I ever have a party and I’m without entertainment.”

You have parties?”

That was my thought. I love him, but he’s not really Joe Sociable.

He looked angry at her, though. “Think that’s funny? I ought to beat your nasty little ass to Hell and back for that.”

Something moving in me stopped. Angel didn’t curse. He just didn’t. And he never spoke heatedly like that, with a passion sometimes, yes, but never dirty like that.

“I hear Hell’s nice this time of year, and,” she replied cheekily, rising, “I think that you’re just itching to find a good excuse to take that belt off and giving me a good whippin’.” She turned from him, placed both hands on the low coffee table in front of her, raising her tight ass into the air. She gave a seductive little shake, knowing full well where his eyes were. We both knew; me too.

“Any excuse,” he said softly, fingering his belt. “It doesn’t have to be a good one.”

Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckled his belt, slid it slithering from its casings. He held it in his hands for a moment, balancing the weight, feeling it, smooth as soap, in his hands. He held the cool silver buckle in one palm, wrapped a length of dark leather around his hand once. He pulled it taut with the other hand, the relaxed it, pulled it taut again. Faith stood still, listening to him flex the leather and knowing what was coming.

“Getting a little intense, isn’t it?” Angel asked softly. I looked over at him from her; his tone was quiet, but I knew he was speaking to me. He had never, would never, use that voice with Faith. Waiting a moment for an answer, and receiving none, he continued. “Just know that everything I do to her, will be done to you.”

I opened my mouth to say something, to protest, to cry, to beg, but my mouth was dry, my throat rasping and empty of words. I shut my mouth and watched, swallowing thickly and trying to keep frightened tears from my eyes.

Angel nodded once as though I’d spoken, then raised his belt like a whip and brought it down hard against Faith’s ass. She jumped a little, gasping in what sounded to me more like pleasure than pain.

My heart stopped for a minute, just in shock.

”I think this would be a lot more effective were you not wearing those pants.”

“I can take them off,” Faith said breathlessly.

“I think you had better take everything off. The next time I open my mouth to speak to you, you best be naked.”

She jumped up, snapped to attention, slipping off her boots and unzipping her tight pants. Voyeur though he was, he turned to me, still chained to the wall, while she was throwing off her clothing.

“Think I’m being too hard on her?”

My eyes widened. “Why are you asking me?”

He smiled. “Everything I do to her will be done to you.”

My mouth dropped. Nice fashion statement. Open again. Angel turned around just in time to see Faith bending over the table again, spreading her long, shapely legs in a search-me straddle.

“Good girl,” he murmured, walking over to her and giving her a good smack on the upper thigh with the flat of his hand.

She jumped a little. He took a step back and the belt rose again. And fell. It hit across the curve of her bottom hard, leaving a dark red mark that I saw as a smear of crimson. I flinched; Faith cried out, half moan, half strangled scream.

“Again?” he asked softly, dusting his fingers over the already fading mark, down her tight ass, between her spread legs, and up. “You’re already sopping.” He looked down at her with slight distaste. “And trembling. Come on, girl, you’re a Slayer; you’re supposed to have a high tolerance for pain. You can’t take a spanking?”

She didn’t say anything. He unwrapped the portion of the belt from his hand, folded it over, and slapped it down across her bottom. She jerked and moaned. “I asked you a question.” He didn’t raise his voice. Not that he ever did.

“Again,” she gasped.

He hit her again. She quivered a little, gasping. Brought one of her legs in a little, flexed the muscles in her ass and the small of her back. Angel frowned and smacked her a couple more times with the belt. “Stop that.” She went back to her straddle, but I couldn’t figure out what she’d done wrong, to make him so angry. I felt myself blush again when I realized that Faith was trying to get some friction on her clit, and that that violated some part of the game they were playing.

Angel unfolded and redoubled the belt, then brought it down hard against Faith’s pale ass. She jerked a little again, and a small whimper escaped as tears ran down her cheeks, slickness down her inner thighs.

“More?”

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. Angel had asked her for her consent, but to me, it didn’t really seem like a choice.

I turned my eyes away until he was done, but I couldn’t really shut out the sounds of the slapping leather, or her grunts and groans and crying, try as though I might. After that stopped, there was a short silence, and I looked back over to make sure that nothing worse was going down.

Faith was on her knees, still half-bent over the coffee table, dark head buried in her arms. Angel knelt behind her, put his arms around her, and stood, lifting her up with him. Turned her around, set her down on the table, facing him.

“Please,” she whispered, eyes rimmed red.

I didn’t understand. He wasn’t touching her. Oh. I felt my face heat again. That was it. He wasn’t touching her.

I didn’t want him to. I felt bad for Faith, having taken that punishment for seemingly no reason, but still, he was mine, Goddammit, and I didn’t need him feeling up other girls. Especially not Faith. So I wished and willed him to back away from her, to leave her sitting and sulking on the table. But he didn’t. He slid a hand between her legs, moved it back and forth to a slow rhythm. I averted my eyes again, but I could hear Faith’s moaning and her breaths becoming increasingly short.

“Buffy.”

I looked over at him; by the way he was looking at me, I could tell that he’d been doing so for some time and that he was a little annoyed that I wasn’t more in the game. Well, fuck him. But I supposed Faith was doing that, too, so really, I didn’t need to be in the game at all . . .

“I love you,” I said dumbly.

It was really an inappropriate thing to say, and he looked a little confused. “I’m sorry?”

“I love you. And . . . I haven’t been with anyone but you, and I even stayed loyal to you when you were evil, and how long have you been sleeping with Faith?”

“Not like you’re giving him anything to write home about, B,” Faith gasped.

“I’m not sleeping with Faith,” Angel protested quietly. I felt flames flicker across my eyes again.

“You have your hands . . .” It angered and embarrassed me to say exactly where his hands were, “. . . there, and you . . . you tell me that you’re not sleeping with her?” I wanted to cry.

“I’m not sleeping with her,” he repeated, and then did something that made Faith arch her back and hiss.

“But, but you’re . . .”

“Giving her a hand job?” he asked dully, as though it was a perfectly ordinary thing. Oh, well, tonight I went to the store, and made dinner, and gave Faith a hand job. How was your day? “She deserves it.”

“She didn’t do anything.” I was kind of getting desperate, my voice cracked unattractively with emotion and I really didn’t have any reasoning to back that up with.

“I’ve done everything,” said Faith, not helping right now, thank you very much, F.

“I’m not going to get her aroused and then not let her come,” Angel said calmly. I went to the store and made dinner and then got Faith aroused and didn’t let her come. “That’s cruel.”

“Then . . . why did you get her . . . why did you do that in the first place?! If you’re not sleeping with her.”

He smiled. “And I’m not.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him sulkily.

“I thought maybe it would be a good experience for you. Anyway, it was your idea, getting us all together.”

“It was not my idea for you to fuck Faith!”

He looked at me, face way too Goddamned calm, hand still making Faith pant. “Does it really bother you that much?” He jerked his wrist, and Faith cried out, shuddered, and then was still. He withdrew his hand and left her sitting on the table, shaking.

He walked over to me, got very close, smiling. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

I blushed. “You can’t fuck me. You’ll lose your soul if we –”

“I’ll lose my soul if I make love to you. Fucking is a little bit different.” He laughed a little. “Basically the same end products, but a little less intimacy and a little fewer emotional byproducts.” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, he continued. “Not that I don’t want to make love to you. Because I do. But this makes things a little less complicated, don’t you think?” He cupped my face in his hand, traced my lips with his thumb. I shivered a little. “I can’t do everything to you that I want, but I can come pretty close, and keep my soul.”

He looked over his shoulder briefly. “And I promise you, I am not fucking Faith. Although,” he continued, smiling a little, “I’ve considered letting her fuck you.” I blushed. “Have you ever even kissed a girl, Buffy?” He wasn’t trying to make me uncomfortable; he really wanted to know. He was searching my face for reaction with some great interest.

I shook my head. “No.” It barely came out, and if it wasn’t for paranormal hearing, I’m sure he wouldn’t have caught it.

“Maybe it’s high time you do,” he whispered, still looking at me intently.

“I – I – I . . . I don’t know.”

He shrugged. “I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do,” he said casually, “except that I did mean it when I said that anything I did to Faith, was going to be done to you.”

My muscles went taut, and my stomach dropped again.

“So . . .” he looked over his shoulder. “Faith, come here.”

She rose and walked over to him a little shakily. He took the key in his hand and used it to pull her close enough that he could unlock my cuffs. That done, she walked away, picked up and put on her clothes, and sat down on the couch. I rubbed my sore wrists, keeping my eyes on Angel and wondering when I’d get some feeling back in my belly.

He left me, walked over to the coffee table and picked up his belt again. He looked at it for a long moment, stretched it taut and then doubled it over, held it in one hand. Looking at me. After a minute, I realized he was waiting.

“Come on, now,” he said softly, keeping his tone amiable. Almost nice. Slowly, I walked toward him, convinced not by his tone but by fear of the punishment for disobeying him being worse than what he was about to do to me.

“Take your clothes off.”

“Angel –”

“Do you want me to do it for you?” It wasn’t a threat. An actual offer.

“I . . .” I met his eyes. He was looking at me with some concern, but he didn’t look like he was about to back down off this whole stupid thing. “Yes.”

He dropped his belt to the coffee table and walked over to me, coming close. Without any ado whatsoever, he slipped his hands under my shirt and pulled it off over my head. My first and only thought: he must have some experience. He didn’t hit my earrings, muss my hair, or brush my face doing it. But, like Willow said, if he’s been dating two hundred years, and he only had two different girls a year . . . no, bad thoughts. The air in the mansion was cold, and my skin went a little taut as the cool hit it. I kicked off my shoes before he had to undo them, and he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. Dropping to his knees and placing a soft kiss on my stomach, he helped me step out of my pants, which he folded and dropped to the floor. It was almost cute, how anal he was about such little things. But that was kinda the definition of anal, and . . . his arms around me, not fumbling with the hooks on my bra like a high school guy, but unclasping it in one simple movement, easily and gently, and slipping the straps from my shoulders and the cups from my breasts . . . the cold air hit them, too, and I went hard immediately, skin going goosebumpy and nipples pebbling. I blushed, embarrassed that he was seeing not only my breasts, but my arousal as well. He didn’t leer or say anything about my breasts or my flush, just smiled slightly and went on with his business. He dropped to his knees again and took off my socks, then ran his hands starting at my knees, up my thighs . . . oh, God, why did he have to do it that way, alert all my skin to exactly what he was doing? He ran his hands up my thighs, slipped his fingers under the waistband of my panties, and pulled those down, completely without warning, sliding his hands all the way down the length of my legs again. I blushed further; he rose and smiled. Kissed my forehead softly. So chaste, when he was standing close enough that my alert nipples brushed his chest, God, his shirt couldn’t have been that thick, and he wasn’t blind . . . I blushed some more, the heat spreading out over my cheeks, down my neck, over the top of my breasts. Great. Very attractive, Buffy.

He put his hand under my chin, lifted it up a little to look him in the face, thumb on my lips again. Damn him. He knew I was sensitive there, the bastard.

“Enough pre-show,” Faith called from the couch.

Angel frowned, then looked back at me, the annoyance easing from his face. “You ready?”

I didn’t think I could make words at this point, but I surprised myself by responding. “I guess so.”

He nodded and took me gently by the arm, leading me over to the coffee table. I leaned over it the way I’d seen Faith do, without him even telling me to or anything. Spread my legs, to be open the way he’d wanted her. He leaned over to retrieve his belt, a little closer to me than the occasion necessitated. While he was so close, I took the opportunity to talk to him while Faith couldn’t hear. “Angel?”

He didn’t come up from his position, bent over the coffee table, close to me. “Hmm?”

I lowered my eyes. “Be gentle?”

He laughed a little, not at me, not cruelly. “We’ll see.”

He came up, straightened. I could hear him behind me, the rustle of the leather as it slithered past and against itself, and I closed my eyes, trying to brace myself for the first blow.

I had nothing on it. He smacked the belt against my bottom, and a storm of pain exploded through me. I didn’t think he’d hit so hard, not on the first blow . . . I grunted a little, steadied myself in my position.

“You alright there, B?” Her tone was mocking. A flush of embarrassment went through me. This was humiliating, being spanked, being dominated, especially having her watch. It hurt, and it was humiliating, and so I was astounded to realize the wetness on my legs wasn’t sweat, but my own arousal . . . Angel waited a few beats more than he should have and then struck me again, and this time I realized that a good portion of the wave of feeling exploding through me when he hit was the tightness between my legs . . . I flushed darker, felt like I was going to cry.

There was a sharp slapping noise as the belt came down again, on the soft flesh of my upper thighs just below my buttocks. I cried out a little, from pain and the confusing throbbing, and then gasped, not able to right myself after this one. He waited a minute for me to steady myself; when I couldn’t, he asked softly, “Again?” He sounded concerned. Dammit, I was going to beat Faith on this, show her what I was made of.

I swallowed thickly. “Again,” I repeated, not really recognizing my own voice.

The muscles in my ass and lower back contracted as the belt came down again. I held my breath and tried to steady myself, which was difficult because the room was suddenly swimming.

Somewhere, I heard Angel. “More?”

“Please,” I gasped, my head thinking: are you insane? Whatthehelliswrongwithyou?

He slapped the belt against my taut, burning skin four times in rapid succession; almost so quick that I couldn’t distinguish one wave of pain and lust before the next one melted into it. I heard him move, felt him move closer to me. He dropped his belt on the coffee table next to me; I didn’t look up. I felt him as he slid his hand to my belly, holding me with a very deliberate support. I looked down at the belt, legs shaking, clit throbbing, wondering why he’d stopped hitting me. Then I stopped wondering. His hand came down against my bottom, palm flat. I jumped a little and gave a little moan. It came down again, again, a dozen more times, at least. He knew what he was doing; it didn’t hurt as much as the belt, but the skin to skin contact and his physical closeness to me made the inferno between my legs rage all the more. Tears streamed down my face, burning against my hot cheeks.

“Please.”

He didn’t move, just stayed hovering above me, resting his hand on my sore bottom.

“Angel, please, my . . .” I didn’t want to say it. I was shy saying it to him, but loathe to do it in front of Faith. I lowered my voice. She’d hear me, I knew she would, but I needed this. “. . . my clit. Angel. Please.”

He was still for a minute, not moving, not speaking. My stomach flip-flopped, and the pain and tightness everywhere was unbearable. I needed friction, I knew that, but I felt like I was going to explode, like if I didn’t have him in me and his hands his mouth on me that I’d die, just explode to ashes like the phoenix.

Slowly, he turned me around to face him. He kissed me, then dropped to his knees in front of me.

“Spread your legs.”

I did. He put one hand on my lower back, the other on my hip, support, and then, Jesus God, his mouth . . . I melted against him, and he had to steady me as I started to turn into water and collapse all over the floor. I gripped onto his shoulders, and he held me, and worked me with his tongue, finding a good fast tempo that made me twitch and dig my fingernails into his flesh with every other pass. My breath shortened as I tensed and tensed and tensed . . . I came hard, building up into a peak so hard I thought I’d break in half and then releasing to shuddering and collapsing into Angel’s lap. He brought me close, held me in a gentle embrace, kissed my face, petting me.

“You alright?”

I wondered why he asked, and realized I’d started crying again. I sniffled and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. “I’ll be okay.” I buried my face in the joint of his neck and cried.

He held me.

Faith, to her credit, didn’t say a word.


COMING SOON: PART TWO -- FAITH

(take me over your knee)

[27 Feb 2002|09:33pm]

TITLE: Birthday Girl
AUTHOR: Sunnydale Waitress
RATING: NC-17. Sex, descriptions of, and violence in.
CHARACTER: Buffy
PAIRING: B/A
SUMMARY: Buffy has a visitor for her birthday.
SPOILERS: Older and Far Away
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dark fic. Very. Be forewarned.
DISCLAIMER: “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and all related characters, storylines, etc. are solely the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, FOX 20th Century, and all related parties. No copyright infringement is intended.
FEEDBACK: lamia@stigmata.com
DISTRIBUTION: withangelsontop List. Anyone else, please just ask.


“Who’s there?”

Buffy looked around wearily. It had been a long, long night, and she was tired of games. She closed her bedroom door and stared uselessly into the black.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, and then I’m going to get testy.”

The darkness parted in a thin red line as the unseen intruder lit a cigarette and brought it to their mouth in one smooth arc. “Not a good birthday?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, half relieved and half pissed to Hell as recognition hit her. “Angel.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, which illuminated his face some, bathing it in Hellfire orange. “Maybe you should consider not celebrating them anymore.”

She walked a couple steps further into the room. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

He smiled a little, slight curve of the mouth that did not reach his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She sighed and walked in a little further, sat next to him on her bed. “No. It was not a good birthday. You’re very perceptive.”

He shrugged. “I lurk.”

“And yes, I have considered . . . but it’s important. To them, I mean. Especially now . . . it’s been hard on them,” she finished quietly, looking not at him, but at her hands. Shaking slightly. Stress. “Me dying and all.”

“Not hard on you?” he asked softly, slightly raising an eyebrow.

She smiled a little, imitating his. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, yeah, but sometimes I wonder who it hurts more. I mean, I died, and . . . well, so did you, and I’m kind of having a hard time deciding which one hurt me worse.”

“You weren’t so much hurt by your dying as your coming back,” he guessed, correctly, and breathed in more nicotine.

“Can I have one?”

He handed her a cigarette, lighting it with a heavy silver lighter once it was between her pretty lips. “You don’t smoke.”

“You don’t breathe. I don’t see *how* you can smoke.”

He chuckled. “Semblance of breath.”

She coughed a little, but took another breath of smoke. He was right. She didn’t smoke. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, I pretend.”

She looked at her hands again, at the glowing bud she held in her shaking fingers. “Oh.” There was a short silence, the gentle huff and puff of her breathing, Angel’s semblance of breath. “Why are you here?”

He smiled. Genuine, this time. “I brought you a birthday gift.” He motioned to a long box between his legs, bent tent-like above her bed.

She looked at it for a long moment before responding. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t be. Never, ever be afraid to ask. Anything.” He picked up the package and held it out to her, waiting expectedly for her to take it. After a short, awkward moment of juggling her cigarette, she took the box in one hand and set it in her lap. She looked at it, not really knowing how to feel about the entire series of events unfolding in her bedroom.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Do I have to?” she asked after a beat.

He was quiet for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “No, I guess not.”

She fingered the dark wrapping paper. “Is this a big decision?”

He smiled again. “It can be.”

She looked at the cigarette in her hand, dropping ashes all over the place. “I don’t –”

He held out a small glass ashtray, surely something he’d brought with him as it was nothing she owned, and she awkwardly stubbed out the butt and released the ashtray back to him. He spirited it away, and she was aware of a soft noise as he placed it on the bedside table at his right hand.

Carefully, she tore off the glossy wrapping paper and tore the tape holding the box together with her thumbnail. Breath tight in her chest, she lifted the lid and pushed aside some fairy wisps of white tissue paper. Dumbstruck, she looked down at the two objects lying innocently enough in the bottom of the tissue paper nest.

“I don’t understand.”

He turned for a moment, and the glint of his cigarette bloomed into something more with a hiss. She looked briefly over his shoulder; he’d lit a candle on the bedside table, and then stubbed out his own cigarette.

“Well,” he said softly, rising, “you will, I guess. But first, you have to make a decision.”

She didn’t look up from the box on her lap. “What?”

“You’re going to have to decide,” he murmured, walking around the bed and kneeling in front of her, taking her hands, “whether or not you want to be saved.”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

He smiled. “Yes, you do.”

She opened her eyes, rimmed with tears. Yes, she did. “Tara says I didn’t come back wrong.”

He nodded. “No.”

“But I am . . . I’m wrong. This isn’t me.”

“It is.”

She tore her hand away from him. “No!”

He took them back, held them through her struggling. “Yes, it is. It’s always been you, Buffy.” She turned her face away from him; he took one hand and gently turned it back to face him. She put her eyes upon him again, glaring angrily. “The same person who moaned and came on the mansion floor when I drank from them. Always you.”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered huskily.

“Yes,” he said gently.

“But I hate it.”

“Well, that’s okay too.” He dropped her hands and rose. “But you don’t have to. And you won’t forever.”

She didn’t say anything. He drew out the chair from her desk, took the box from her and set it atop it. “You have a decision to make, love.”

“You’ll leave if I ask you, won’t you?” she asked dully, voice emotionless.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And if I asked you to stay forever, you’d do that too, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. But you won’t ask me to do either, and we both know it.”

She was quiet, looking at her hands again. There was a cigarette burn on her left wrist, not from her own cigarette, but from Spike’s.

“Angel.”

He looked over at her, waiting. Forever waiting.

“Save me.”

He nodded again, then turned around and retrieved one of the objects from her box. Even in the faint light, she knew which one it was. Not much mistaking the shape.

“Take your clothes off.”

She stood clumsily and stripped, slowly because of the numbness that flowed through her fingers and her aching muscles. When she was finished, she stood before him, numb and naked and standing in a puddle of her own clothes. It had been a long time since he’d seen her even without a bra on, but there wasn’t any embarrassment, or any lust. He wasn’t looking at her with distaste or appraisal. It was simply recognition, passive, quiet. Like him.

She wet her lips. “What now?”

“I want you to kneel on the bed, facing the wall. Hands on the headboard.” She did as she was told without comment or argument. “Spread your legs a little,” he ordered without any order in his voice, gently running a hand over the inside of one thigh. She did that, too, and he knelt behind her on the bed, unbuttoning and slipping out of his shirt, letting it pool behind him on the bed, and gripping Buffy’s birthday present tightly in one hand.

“Ever been spanked?”

She flushed a little, not that he could see it. “When I was little, by my parents –”

“That’s not quite the same thing, and it’s not what I mean,” he said kindly.

“Oh,” she said dumbly, flushing some more. “No, then.”

“Twenty-one, right? And one for good luck?”

“Huh? Oh, birthday spankings . . . yeah. Twenty-one,” she echoed. “And one for luck.”

He put his hand gently on her hip for a moment, reassuring. “This will be cleansing. Kind of a penance for sins.”

“You’re Catholic, right?”

“Yes. I mean, I was raised that way. Been a long time since I’ve attended mass, though,” he said, a bit sarcastically.

“Guess I never thought about it.”

“This doesn’t really have much to do with that.”

“It has everything to do with that,” she whispered miserably.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, concerned.

“We haven’t started yet.”

There was a short silence. Angel cleared his throat. “I want you to tell me your sins. To confess. It’ll help, help you understand them, help you forget or resolve them.”

“And you’ll punish me for them?”

“It’ll be a release. And the part in you that understands the give and take, the warrior that understands that consequences have reactions, it will appease that.”

“Twenty-one sins,” she whispered.

“Twenty-two. And I know you’ve got that many. *Everybody* has that many.”

“I have more,” she whispered, holding back tears.

“Everybody has more,” he soothed, “and you can tell me anything, you know that? Anytime.”

“You should have been a priest,” she said with a short laugh.

“The undead-creature-of-the-night thing kind of stands in the way of that,” he said, smiling.

“You don’t say,” she laughed.

There was a pause, not awkward but not pleasant. Finally, Buffy swallowed the lump of tears and the pregnant fear twisted inside her and whispered, “I hated them when they brought me back.”

Swiftly, Angel brought the broad wooden paddle down across her bottom. A spasm of pain shot through her, and she gasped as simultaneously a jerk of warmth rushed through her cunt.

“I wanted to die. I wanted to be away from here, to go back.”

He brought it down again, harder. A tiny moan escaped her as pain seized up her ass and back, and moisture flooded her.

“I tried to kill myself.”

He hit her again. She closed her eyes briefly with the simultaneous pain and pleasure, then opened them and continued. “All the time.

“A couple of times, straightforwardly.

“I tried to slit my wrists . . .

“But it hurt too much and I couldn’t finish it.

“I took pills . . .

“But I threw them up.

“I tried to drown myself . . .

“But I remembered the first time, and I got scared.

“And then, when I wasn’t doing that, I worked myself to the breaking point, all night, hunting, no sleep, no feeling . . . trying to kill myself.”

With each declaration, he slammed the paddle home across her tight bottom. By the last, tears were streaming down her face from pain, guilt, and denied longing.

She sniffled and continued.

“And now, I’m completely distant, pulling myself away from everyone who loves me.”

He swung the paddle again, bringing it down hard. She choked on a sob, took a moment to gasp for air, and continued with her confessional.

“I’m not there for Willow, or Xander, and they both need me; they’re going through huge things in their lives and I can’t be there for them.

“I’m not there for Dawn and I love her more than anything.

“I’m a bad mother, and I don’t know how to make things right, how to help her.”

The paddle came down three times, and she moaned, crying, her ass screaming and her clit throbbing.

“And Spike . . .” she sobbed. “I don’t know why I let him do those things to me.”

She thought the blow for this sin might have come down particularly hard, but by this point she couldn’t really tell.

“But I let him do them anyway.”

Her tears for this spank were more from guilt than pain or the tension between her legs.

“He’s everything I hate . . .

“But he’s the only thing that makes me feel anything . . .

“And even then, I still feel dead inside.”

On the third blow, she had to take one hand from the headboard to slap over her mouth so that her scream wouldn’t wake Willow or Dawn. When she replaced it, she noticed her knuckles were stretched white and that her hands were still shaking.

“That’s twenty-one,” Angel whispered from somewhere behind her. It felt like a long way away. “One more.”

She nodded numbly, acknowledging his words and finding some comfort in the movement. Sobbing, she whispered, “I don’t think I’m getting any better.”

He waited a beat and then brought the paddle down a final time, harder than the rest and sending her into another fit of tears and wetness, weeping at both ends. Unclenching her hands from the headboard, she sank to the bed, burying her face in a crooked arm, keeping her screaming bottom above any contact with the bed and trying to push away some of the hurting, throbbing in her clit.

After what seemed like a long time, she felt soft, warm around her. Angel, gently picking her up from the mattress and bringing her tiny body against his, observant and careful of the tender spots on her sobbing, trembling frame.

He ran his hand down one tear-streaked cheek, smoothed a tangle of blonde away from her face.

“We’re only half done, lover,” he whispered into her ear. Her body went taut.

“You said . . . twenty-two . . .” she moaned miserably, eyes glancing for the first time the paddle lying next to her, looking innocent and perfectly ordinary in the candlelight.

“There’s something else in the box, pet.”

She swallowed thickly. There was. She remembered now.

He lifted her up gently, placing her on her knees on the mattress. “Go get it for me, hmm?”

Obediently, she rose on shaky legs and walked agonizingly over to the chair, a mere three feet away but a horrid Trail of Tears march for her. She barely finished the return trip, and Angel had to take her into his arms and pick her up off the floor and onto the bed, her energy and will drained.

Holding her close, Angel took the other present from her and set her on her knees, one arm around her waist.

“Are you going to be able to stay like that? On your knees?”

She wet her salty lips and nodded once. “Yes.”

He nodded in affirmation and handed her the knife. She looked down at the wicked long blade and swallowed something thick in her throat.

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve been through your sins,” he said softly, “the things that color you dark. Now we’ll go through the things that make you light.”

She looked down at the night, dubious.

He smiled a little when she didn’t respond. “Anything.”

“I don’t want to die anymore,” she whispered. “They . . . Warren and . . . never mind, but they tried to kill me, and I fought.”

Keeping one hand around her waist to support her, Angel placed his other hand around the one Buffy was holding the knife with and drew it to his chest. Purposefully, meeting her eyes, he guided her hand till it pressed the tip of the blade against his pale bare chest, pressing down till a bead of dark appeared on the white surface, then drawing down in a small, straight line.

Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Teaching you the give and take.”

She nodded once, and he tightened the grip around her waist, drawing her a little closer. He dropped his grasp on her hand and slowly, fingers trailing her exposed skin, brought the other hand down in between her legs, putting his fingers up into her and stroking her throbbing warmth.

“My dreams, the ones of being buried alive . . . they’re less.”

He pinched her clitoris and she drew a long line of dark across his chest. She was the one that gasped.

“And the ones of Heaven. Hardly ever, anymore.”

They both moaned this time, Angel with his hand working her now at a steady rhythm and droplets of blood coursing down his long pale torso, Buffy brandishing the reddening blade and growing faint of breath as her arousal grew.

“And I talked to Tara. I mean, I opened up to somebody about everything . . . my problems . . .”

Angel swallowed a cry of pain as she pressed the blade hard against his shoulder blade. She didn’t bother, and he thrust his fingers harder up into her cavity.

“And I talked to you . . .”

Angel flinched, swallowed hard, blood welling up around a new wound. Buffy’s eyes widened when she saw bone, then further when Angel increased the tempo.

“And I told Spike ‘no’. I mean, I still . . . I want, but I am trying . . .”

He gasped, then cried out shortly. She brought the blade back, looked at it as if she didn’t know what it was, and then back at him, all the while bucking her hips a little against his still constant petting.

“And I love –” she stopped. She was going to add to that, but it sounded like it was enough. She laughed shortly. Angel drew in a quick bite of air he didn’t need, and she took his face in one hand, held it steady while she drew the blade back over his cheekbone. A long stream of tear mingled with the newly flowing blood, lightening it as it dripped from the hard line of his jawbone to her skin immediately below it. “I love,” she repeated, taking the knife and scraping the pattern of a heart immediately above his. She brought her face down for a minute, kissed the reddened and already healing scratch, then drew up, kissed him full on the mouth, and drove the blade up to the hilt through his breast bone. He coughed painfully, wet, as she pulled her hand and the knife back. She dropped the knife, he buried his face against her, gasping and crying, and she went taut, crying out, as she came.

***

The sun didn’t wake her. It didn’t come into her room at all as it rose over Sunnydale; he had, of course, made sure of that when he’d come in.

Buffy woke of her own accord, stiff and sore and sticky from blood and tears and come. Angel was still lying next to her, sleeping quietly, covered with blood and tears and come just the same, and almost completely healed.

The stains were really the only testament that anything had happened, but they’d be gone soon.

Buffy rose, careful to not wake Angel, and draped her robe around her, planning on a shower. She kissed him softly, petted him when he moaned, stretched like a cat on a warm windowsill.

She smiled.

She felt like she might be getting better.

(take me over your knee)

The Best Nights [06 Feb 2002|09:35pm]


TITLE: The Best Nights
AUTHOR: Blackwinged Angel
RATING: NC-17. Sex. Descriptions of, and violence in.
PAIRING: B/S, B/A
IMPROV #34: cater – spill – wisp – ginger
SUMMARY: Buffy POV, “Wrecked”
SPOILERS: “Buffy” Season Six Buffy/Spike arc
DEDICATIONS: Ally, because she wanted B/S, even if I had to be honest about it.
DISCLAIMER: Numfar.
FEEDBACK: bobthepenguin@att.net And no, that is NOT a fake addy.
DISTRIBUTION: Improv. Everyone else, please just ask.


On the good nights, I can see his eyes as warm dark brown instead of these cold blue, and I smell a heavier musk, aftershave and sex, instead of blood and alcohol sweat. On the good nights, I really believe that, for a couple minutes, he’s holding my hands tight in his much bigger ones, small gasp as our Claddagh rings whisper past each other, “I love you,” right before he closes his eyes, arches his back, and isn’t mine again. On the better nights, the best nights, I forget that Angel even existed.

Sometimes, when he’s far enough in me, when he breaks me in half with a grunt and a stupid confidence, I can forget that I’m angry that I’m alive. I can forget that I ever lost anything, and that everything I might have lost meant something. When there’s pain enough to blind me, I don’t have to deal with anything, and that’s almost love, in those small spaces.

When I was with Riley, the occasional red stain in my panties meant that I was still me, that my body was still just mine. That I was alone in myself. Not with Angel. I didn’t have to worry about babies, with him, and I was never alone in my own body. There was always the constant burning reminder, the shadow of him hovering over me, passing cold pale fingers across places that made me shiver. Now, I don’t worry about children, but the blood doesn’t mean menstruation, just the same. I don’t have it anymore, at least, I don’t think. The doctor says no, I’m not pregnant; I’m just too stressed and too thin, losing too much weight, to get to have the chance to make life. That privilege has been taken away from me, another punishment that’s reasoning I don’t understand. I bleed without menses, from the punishment I take every night. Angel, he went down on me, a couple of times. He was gentle, tender, took care of me. He did it during my period, because he just couldn’t handle himself anymore, but he was sweet and gentle and always made me come just the same, sweet and gentle, moaning his name, God’s name. Now, there’s the hammering and then the knives, sharp scrape of fangs, breaking tender flesh, sucking, pulling out of hunger and need and want, but not mine. Not really. He makes me come, but it’s always screaming, hands twisted around the sheets until I can’t feel my palms because I never knew this kind of pain before. He comes up grinning, eyes yellow and face smeared with dark, and I have to wear pads all the time, because tampons make me cry with the pain and I can’t explain all the blood.

On the good nights, I can close my eyes and remember Angel. I can just shut out the world, and really really believe that the bed is shaking with his force, that my body is not screaming at me with hunger and pain, but that I am being soothed and petted and kissed and loved. That the reason I am lying there, the reason I touch my lover is because of a mutual respect, because I want to make him feel the way that he makes me feel, not because I need to be blinded into forgetting myself, and because he won’t blindfold me unless I really beg and cater to his every painful whim. On the good nights, I shut out the noises, the primal grunts, the howling of the bed, my own inadvertent cries of pain and twisted pleasure. All I hear is that gentle voice: “I love you. I love you, I love youIloveyou.” On the best nights, I forget that there’s anything, and I can’t feel my body. It’s like watching something on television, except the noise is turned off.

On the good nights, I remember Heaven, and I just leave to there. I remember feeling warm and loved and filled to spilling with love and beauty and sugar and spice and everything nice. Nice smells, wispy feathery streaks of light and dark around me, sugar and spice . . . ginger girl. Cinnamon girl.

On the best nights, I’m not anybody anymore, and I drown in the darkness that’s been inside me all this time, since coming back from somewhere so shining.

On the bad nights, I know everything. I feel him in me, ramming into me too hard and at the wrong tempo, but still making me swell and heat and hurt, and I can’t do anything but lie there and pray for darkness. On the bad nights, I flinch as he unthreads his belt from its casings, and pray to God that I’ll have the strength not to make a noise when he purples my flesh, pray to God that that’s all he’ll do, use the belt instead of invading my body, my mind like he does. On the bad nights, he calls me by my name instead of “Slayer,” and I’m too weak to fight him when he gives orders, too tired and hurting and too scared of punishment to protest even a little. On the bad nights, I cry when he beats me, right in front of him, and then I’m really in his pocket, and he forces me into a mold that fits even less, and he’ll make me say “Master” and make me call “Spike” when he rides me till blood spills over my hips and I cry at the voices in my head, whispering incessantly about dawnbillsheavenhellangelwhysubjectyourselftothiskindofhumiliationareyouhumananymorewhatswrongwithme?

But on the best nights, I’m nothing, not the Slayer, not a mother or a sister or a friend, not a lover, not even a cinnamon girl. On the best nights, I don’t feel anything at all.

(take me over your knee)

Glycerin [06 Feb 2002|09:28pm]


Glycerin
by Blackwinged Angel


RATING: PG-13 for a little bit of sexual innuendo.
PAIRING: B/A
IMPROV #20: twin – deaf – mild – asleep
SUMMARY: Slightly AU . . . but only with timing. You’ll figure it out, kids; I’ve got faith in ya, and it’s less fun if you know what’s coming.
SPOILERS: “The Gift”
DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Joss. We know this.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.
DISTRIBUTION: Just ask.

=====

Gently, he dips the long brush with the flat, smallish head into the tiny little tin container, follows the curves of the pot with an easy movement, and then brushes across her face. Some kind of asleep on the table, she doesn’t move, doesn’t notice, just keeps her eyes closed, her body motionless and still against his oh so gentle brushstrokes. He takes the thin pencil with the smooth brown wrapper and the soft head and traces the edge of her lashes, then makes them fuller, a deeper color, with his spiked-toothed mascara brush.

The man in the corner doesn’t say anything, because he can’t find the words, and because even if he could, he cannot speak. He has not spoken – not a word – for three days.

The man at the table finds this mildly amusing. The woman on the table: deaf; the man in the corner who paid him a pocketful of bills to watch him work on her: mute. The man in the corner does not think this is particularly funny; but then again, there isn’t a lot that amuses him, really.

He hasn’t smiled for three days, either.

And he doesn’t smile now, just as he doesn’t speak. He watches, his dark, sad eyes almost unblinking, arms crossed over his broad chest, hands clenched nervously. Not that anyone can see his hands. They’re hidden in his dark coat, and anyway, the man at the table isn’t looking – he’s busy at work, and doesn’t care – and the woman certainly isn’t paying him any particular attention.

If either of them had cared, they would have seen his knuckles clenched white and disgusting, quickly healing scabs on his palms

(he needs to stop clenching his fists)

and on the soft underside of both wrists

(Cordelia had cried when she’d seen them, and shook him when he wouldn’t tell her why he’d done it)

The man at the table takes the little green tube from the small metal table next to the long slab he is working at, unsheathes it, and rolls up a reddish, finely shaped sword. He presses the flat edge of the implement to the woman’s lips; pale, fleshy bottom first, then finely sculpted top. The man in the corner flinches while the man at the table rolls down the lipstick, caps it, and puts it back on the little metal stand.

The man at the table takes a look at the woman’s closed eyes

(he doesn’t know, but they’re green. The man in the corner knows this. He dreamt of that color last night.)

and takes his medium sized brush, one with a loosely bristled head, and brushes it lightly across one brow, then the other. He puts that brush back on the small table, and takes out his big one, the one with the soft, curved, bell head. He opens his little tin of redpink blush. She’s so pale . . . The man in the corner does not like to see her this pale. He doesn’t want the man at the table to use the redpink blush, because she wasn’t pink, not on her face

(lower, there was pink. His.)

Her skin was the color of honey

(he can still taste it)

and not this redpink. It’ll make her look like someone else, and he feels something blasphemous in that.

But he doesn’t say anything, not as the man at the table dusts his beautiful bell head brush into the very wrong redpink powder, not as he runs the big brush over her finely sculpted cheek bones, not as he brings it over her lips

(the man in the corner’s aunt had a garden. When he was small she sat him down in the dirt, brought his fingers to the soft petals of her favorite flowers – redpink it was – and told him “love, remember something. Flowers are very much like women. Remember that.” He’d asked why and she’d laughed, and told him he’d know, when he was older. He knew now.)

the pretty, smiling ones on her face

(the man in the corner remembers what it is like to live there, to have heaven and hell in her kiss)

down the fine arch of her jaw, then down, dusting her pale neck

(he remembers what it is like to have heaven and hell here, too)

lingering slightly at the soft depression at the bottom of her throat. He doesn’t say anything, and it’s not because he doesn’t remember how to make words, or because he doesn’t know any words that would fit. It’s because he’s rethought this blasphemy, and has decided that it would be a beautiful thing to lay a mask over the gorgeous creature on the table.

He can pretend, for a little while, that it isn’t her.

(the man in the corner thinks this is a little wrong, and feels bad for thinking it)

The man at the table looks at the woman for a minute, then realizes what the man in the corner knew all along: the redpink is very wrong. She is not a flower

(the man in the corner wishes she was. He could hold her in his hand, and pet her strong leaves and soft petals, and give her plenty of love and water and)

she is the sun. She is golden precious spring, and definitely not this horrendous Malibu Barbie redpink. The man at the table smiles sheepishly at the man in the corner, who averts his eyes. Then the man at the table takes a soft foam sponge and lessens the redpink considerably. He rummages through his clever little tins, and finds something a little more suitable for the sun. For the heavens. For

(an Angel)

a goddess such as this, frozen

(no, not frozen. She isn’t that cold. No colder than the man in the corner.)

perfect forever

(twinning with the man in the corner, or the mirror of him, rather. Both perfectly beautiful forever, but her innocence saved, and him . . . it’s his pain that’s been preserved . . . and in the end, she will fall victim to time, withering away, while his wounds are all on the inside . . . his face – as always – unchanged, unmarred . . .)

The man at the table shakes the garish redpink from his beloved bell brush, the dips it into this newfound goldish powder. The man in the corner thinks this new color is more befitting, but he’s not sure that’s a good thing. It will be much harder to pretend if she looks exactly like herself.

The man in the corner watches as the man at the table once more goes through the motions with his brush

(watching his aunt, with her flowers; she’d cut an armful of brightly colored blossoms, and he’d helped her carry them to the table, tripping over his adolescent feet, dropping buds here and there. She watched, smiling, and when he’d successfully brought all the newly cut flowers to the table, she’d placed them gently in a water filled vase. “watch, love,” she’d murmured, taking a small brush and a little bottle in either hand. “you can keep flowers forever like this, did you know?” he’d watched with the big brown eyes he’d had even then, as she painted glycerin over the petals of the newly cut flowers)

over his

(he knew the flowers were dead)

beautiful girl, lying so still on the table, so far from him now.

(but they looked so alive)

The man in the corner watched

(silently)

as the man at the table finished, screwing caps onto his jars of

(glycerin)

make-up, cleaning his brushes and putting them into their little box. Covering her with a sheet

(like flowers in the winter, so they wouldn’t get cold)

and rolling her over to the other side of the room.

“Well, that’s all there is to that.

(flowers are very much like women)

I’m going home.

(he remembered what it was like to live there, have Heaven and Hell in her kiss)

You’ll have to leave, now.”

The man in the corner doesn’t move. Just like he doesn’t smile, just like he doesn’t talk. Another action arrested, something he can’t quite remember

(he wishes that women were flowers)

how

(why)

to do. The man in the corner looks after her, blood tears running down his

(arms in rivulets, flowing down into the steadily running bathwater. Cordelia had cried.)

face.

“Did you hear me? Do you need

(glycerin)

a ride?”

He hears that, somewhere. It hits his barely alert conscious broadside. He shakes his head.

He doesn’t need a ride. What he needs is

(glycerin)

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