 |
| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: My Dark Life take 1 Author: Kassie Rating: R Setting: AtS S2 While we were together, before I lost my soul. Long before she sent me to hell, I pictured her inner-landscape as an undulating, blue to green to grey to blue again ocean. I yearned to reach my hand in and pull back drenched fingers and KNOW. Know what it was to be a transcendentally gloryfilled child full of passion and sun-splashed humanity, and pure pure pure LIFE. When my fingers brushed her center what they drew back instead was the tar of need, and it clung to my psyche and wakefulness. She made me aware of her in every second, in every non-breath, every non-heartbeat, miring my feet and thought to her ocean of greedy taking. She thought I could walk on water, I was walking on the solidity of dependency. She bound me to her with the strings of the idea that I just wasnât looking hard enough; that one time I would reach in, and *there * would be her sea rolling towards me, and the tide would sweep me up and away to a place where I could feel the life pulse again within instead of without. Realisation came upon me steadily, through groping and stolen kisses more than anything. Away from humans for so achingly long, not knowing the new customs and behaviours. The caresses began and proceeded forward with some kind of rule of law. They became all there was between us besides the nightly dispatching of my kindred. Her lead, as in everything. I never learned the rules of teenage petting and vanilla sex. That was never my scene, and it wonât ever be again. You could say I got my rise from the pained edge even before my death. So, she showed me, pulled me along on the progression of over the shirt, under the shirt, bra on, bra off, outside of the thighs, top of the thighs, inside the thighs. That cadence of touch culminated in me fucking her, oops, I mean making love to her with her however that trite phrase goes, and after her fucking anything that had a hole with a pulse or without for months on end. That little foray into teen angst did leave me with a brand new personality trait, however: (and if you want to be stickler for specifics also a few hundred more on the body-count that has me in indentured servitude to some faceless, nameless entities) my fetish for cotton panties. Three sets of Cordelia's have a new home in my bottom drawer, her poverty had more welcome outcomes than compassion for the downtrodden, too little money for silk. Not a lot a sympathy in my audience for this type of confession. Especially not for someone that is, in fact, a demon after all. That's what demons do, rend and tear and steal innocence. Pretty literal on the last count in this case. What the proverbial someone would like to hear even less is that she stole something from me as well. She snatched away any belief I could ever have that behind the smiles and the wide-eyes of Innocents lay something deeper, more meaningful. Something other than a void they want filled. And, in the end, isn't that far more brutal and frightening than anything I've ever done? THE END Feedback Read the Sequel |