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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Wild Hunt Author: Spyke Raven Pairing: Angel/The Master (non-con) Rating: R Setting: Wishverse --- They release him on moonlit nights for sport. He runs, the lacerations on his back widening and bleeding where they've wedged in chips of communion wafers and sizzled drops of holy water so he won't heal, he can't heal, only let loose a trail that the blind could follow. The blind do. Human boys hooting in the safety of blessed cars, confident with guns and crossbows, take aim and count coup on him, the only one - idiots, if they knew - who actually gives a damn what happens to them four nights from now. And to save their miserable bastard lives he dives off the main roads and into the wooded areas, running and stumbling leading pursuers away from them and to him, cursing the soul that makes him care. He runs for safety, wondering where would be safe. Something whistles through the darkness. He ducks and rolls, counting on momentum to get him through, feeling the ridges of despair rise through his skin and over his face marking him. His body refuses to die. His spirit needs to live. Angel runs. They follow him, breathing heavily now, guttural sounds in the dark as they pick up his scent and growl in anticipation. He stumbles and swears, moving forward at a crawl, refusing to fall, picking up momentum till he's on his feet again. Angel runs, not looking behind. Behind him, something watches. --- Lucas is gaining on him. Angel grins horribly. Good. First blood is always the best. Suddenly, savagely turning, he gathers himself and leaps - Hears a curse, maybe two, feels the body struggle below him as his hands close around the neck, punishing, twisting, cracking to kill... SNAP! Lucas' neck is now as disgustingly twisted as his sneer. Angel rears back in triumph, then remembers he is hungry. Beggars can't be choosers. He lunges down and takes a thirsty gulp. Then off and running again, seeking shadows and cover to keep them running. There's one thing he knows that the minions don't. As long as he can satisfy the Master's desires, in some way alleviating the boredom of his prison, Angel will live. Painfully, perhaps, but he will live. And he is not quite yet ready to die. Why, he's not entirely sure, especially when on his knees swallowing acid and brimstone, the searing reek of the Master's warty flesh crinkling his nostrils and making him gag. But his spirit tells him live, his demon tells him fight and there is always the vain hope that one day he'll have the pleasure of ripping that bastard's penis from his body and stuffing it, bloody balls and all down the fucker's throat. That day's not tonight, but the pleasure combined with vicarious blood gives Angel the strength to keep on running. Behind him he hears something howl, and picks up the pace, not recovered sufficiently to take another down. He craves this, besides, this illusion of freedom. He lives for these nights, straining every hour for the scent of new moon rising that sweetens even the hours of torture that come before his release into the outer world. And Angel knows the Master knows this, that he holds Angel by the promise of moments in the breeze against days in darkness and sour smelling rot. Which is why Angel kneels, if grudgingly, accepting hurt and taunt and the retching taste of demon seed. The Master croons to him then, using his limited power to conjure pretty images of night sky and wind blown trees that float around them in glistening bubbles while Angel closes his eyes and tries not to shudder, not to come from the sheer pleasure-pain-disgust warring for supremacy. One day, the Master promises him, stroking Angel's hair with un-groomed talons, one day you will lie beneath me and sing for me as I take you. Angel bites down at that, sliding teeth easily into half-rotten flesh, waiting for curses and screams and only hearing laughter, the laughter that comes from the invulnerability of years when any sensation is worth feeling by the flesh. And Angel is left to spit out blood and disgust as eager minions bind him spread-eagled and pour alcohol and matches onto his unprotected skin. I can heal you, the Master offers him. Holds out a wrist and promises eternal life. So much power, if you would only join with me Angelus. There's that part of Angel that bucks and cries, remembering centuries when he did the same and more to his favourites. Recognising the binding of lust and hatred that makes all vampires kin. But the spirit yells at him to live and the demon roars at him not to give in to this mother-fucker, so Angel only winks a bloody eye in a parody of admiration, shooting spit and blood out when the Master comes close enough to hear his answer. The Master only laughs and bids him wait for his kiss. That when the harvest is done, there will be new additions to their game and the wild hunt will run for Angel's blood streaming from every orifice of his body and several new ones as well. The Master promises Angel that he will enjoy this. And it is true that he has the power to make it so. But for now night breezes wash away scent and fear and even the stings on his back are worth the price for freedom, to feel his legs stretching and muscles cramping with exhaustion and exhilaration as he runs - And runs and runs holding himself upright by sheer will power, wondering if this is the night he will be able to keep running until it is dawn. If tonight he wouldn't mind dying if only he can hear their screams and the satisfying crackles as their skin blisters and pops open, withering to dust even as their eyeballs shatter. No, tonight is not the night, so a tree-root trips him and this time he can't right himself, just falls and keeps rolling, rolling out of sheer desperation, in the hopes of a gully, a ravine, a valley, something, anything that can and will hide him - but sanctuary is not for the beasts and never was, so they're on him, teeth rending and tearing, reclaiming his borrowed blood, salivating over his wounds and howling in agony as the remnants of holy water and communion wafers char their skin. He smiles in peaceful agony, passing out as they begin the long process of reworking him, breaking his bones in several different places and twisting them so they will not heal correctly. Again and again, twist, snap and crunch, shards of wrist and finger mingle, hold and freeze in terrors of rebirth before straightening out and reforming into flesh. Angel screams. And screams and screams. Three hours before dawn, they carry him back to the lair in triumph, flinging him at their Master's feet and standing back in worshipful obedience, waiting for the pronouncement of their revered leader. Who leans down from his prison of fire and bone and runs a careful talon over the bloody lips of his grandson, smirking delightedly. I gave you a century, at the most. You owe me at least that much. In his sleep, Angel stirs. *Go fuck yourself granddad. * And passes out as a booted foot descends sharply on his spine, leaving him hovering between life and dark to dream wistfully of the final hunt. -End Feedback |