In the Touch by Criss Moody
Date: April 9th, 2000
Spoilers: Some for various events in seasons 2 and 3 of BtVS.
Rating: NC-17, but barely.
Pairing: Angel/Graham, Graham/Riley
Content Warning: m/m sex, nonconsensual sex, angst.
Summary: Someone (if i say who it ruins the story) does some thinking about a former lover.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and his corporate goons created the characters and the concept, I'm just being my little obsessive compulsive self.
Notes: For this fic, I'm assuming the narrator was in or about Sunnydale prior to his appearance on the show.
In the Touch, c.moody.
Something about the way he touched me ran icy shivers under my skin. I feel them even now slip into my bloodstream, head back to the heart, to replenish the oxygen supply, but things freeze, stop, and they never start again.
It was a Tuesday when he said he'd be leaving. It was another Tuesday when I accidentally saw an image, hidden under a bed, of a handsome, brooding stranger, whom I should not have known as well as I did.
In Fahrenheit, freezing is 0 degrees. Boiling is 212, and when I touched him I knew the hell of not being able to separate two extremes. Two things that should never co-exist wrapped around each other and slowly but surely until my will to say no, to stop, to do anything but let his pale, undead hands trail over my tanned, mortal skin broke apart like a weak shell.
I believe that he never had any intention of continuing. I believe that he planned to kill me after he first raped me. Somehow, amidst coppery kisses, fear laced arousal, and forbidden acts, his demon became somewhat fascinated with me, this creature that allowed him to toy with its body so, with nary a protest. Eventually, though, he would have killed me. But he disappeared and for around 6 months, I didn't see him.
I thanked God and knelt before the Virgin, pressed my tender lips to my rosary and prayed for my salvation.
Walking down near the docks, just after sunset, I saw a shadow in the corner of my eye. It melded with the dimness, seamlessly moving through areas no human being could ever manage. I heard the pulse of my blood pick up, skipping every third beat. My body recognized the familiarity of the presence, but I was trained to wait, to be patient.
Patience, however, is a virtue, and my soul forsake all virtue long ago. As he held my cock in his hand, scraping one hard nail down the already tender skin, to circle the glans and brush over the piss-slit, I closed my eyes to the reality of what I was doing, had done, and would continue to do, in order to concentrate on the painful pleasure his hands wrought on my skin. I allowed him to let his demon out to play, to indulge that supernatural entity's feverish desire to see criss-crossed bloody lines washing over skin, droplets of life-force to lick, wounds to suckle at. A small part of violent need satisfied, though it was nothing like what he had done to me when we first met.
While his fingers had crooked into a tiny hole he had made in my stomach, digging deep while his other hand gripped my cock firmly, I arched my head and looked out the tiny window above me. An eerily appropriate crow perched on a fragile branch and gazed into my agony glazed eyes. My reality had narrowed down to a small list of factors which played on my nerves, strumming them into hypersensitivity. There was the feel of his long, strong fingers arching into my flesh as he marked me in a most impersonal way. His cock plunged into my unprepared ass, and even I didn't expect the unearthly cry wrenched from my body by this unending pain as he rammed into me again and again, his balls slapping loudly against my ass. Lastly, his other hand pumped my cock, and the flesh swelled and grew, harder and harder, and I knew I could not come until he did, and maybe not even then. These things coalesced into a stonehard realization - he possessed every bump on my flesh, every follicle of hair, each thought that passed through my mind. His.
He bought part of his redemption at the price of my soul. He knows that, but he could never admit it. He could never admit that he could only be the man who came out of the shadows to help because I let him come out of from under his soul to maim and destroy everything I have ever been.
Until now, I though that perhaps he was dead, destroyed by something or someone, that he had become the dust the citizens of this town breathed in. But that picture, a drawing I realized as I studied it covertly, proved that he was alive. A small, smudged '00 was drawn in the lower left-hand corner. He had sent this to my buddy's girlfriend. He had shared something with her, and suddenly I felt a vicious jealousy combined with an intense shame.
Boiling and freezing.
Now, as my lover's warm hand idly traces circles on my bare chest after lovemaking, I compare this gentle, loving touch with the unasked for, brutal, nasty fucks I engaged in with that man, that vampire. Anytime I want this man I lay with now, I can have him. If I asked him to stand on his head and let me eat him out, or to even pierce himself, he would because I'm his friend and he trusts me with his soul and his life. His faith sickens me, adds to the cancerous growth munching up whatever humanity I have left. He believes that I love him. But this creature's possession of me has eradicated most human emotions, leaving only the most animalistic, basic feelings.
I feel lust, hunger, and white-hot anger.
And they are all directed towards Angel.