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lostakashaDiamonds on the Inside
Cordy/Angela, Angel/Angela, Cordy/Angel
NC-17
Happy birthday,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
samsom! I hope you like this, and that your year is filled with joy and pleasure.
This takes place during A;tS Season 2 between Redefinition and Epiphany. My guess is that with Angela having lived at 25 different addresses in 6 countries in 8 years, she had to be in LA at some point!
I wrote this as a series of 12 100-word drabbles. Eep!
Diamonds on the Inside
It could have been.
He came so close to suffocating the bansidhe song that howled with every ounce of borrowed animal blood he drank.
Until they reanimated his foul, fetid mother/lover/concubine/bitch and dissolved the humanity in his grasp with a single breath.
And reanimated him.
In that moment he fell back deeper than any alley, deeper than in the birth canal of Balinasloe where he died clutching Darla’s skirts with the tang of tarry stout and the barmmaid’s cunt on his breath and rose choking on ashy graveyard filth.
Had he not already been dead it would have killed him.
†
She was bold, once.
Brazen and fearless and unconquerable and so goddamn young.
She was bold until the pain of a city assembled in her heart and fed on her, pleading and preying on the fringes of her consciousness. At first it blazed in her, lighting her with terrible beauty and she loved it, loved the sense of hope it gave her, loved the pure white torrent of possibility it unleashed in her heart.
Loved the way he caught her when she fell into its hungry maw.
When he walked away her boldness fled with the echo of his steps.
†
Tethered to impulses.
Hung on the moon by her dreams, by shadow and line and scale as she follows each phase from full to dark with charcoal stains on her fingertips and turpentine as her signature scent.
Angela takes lovers like photographs, haphazard and quirky, rich and textured, rough and raw, sacrificing technical perfection for the thrill of revealing hearts from their shadows. She brings first their desire to life on the photosensitive page and the ones she loves she chases and recreates with oils and chalk, page after page until they are perfect for one luminous moment in time.
†
The Watchers lie.
“He’s not the person you knew. He may look like one you recognize, but he is not. He’s a demon, and no trace of the man remains.”
The truth is too dangerous and alluring to reveal and Watchers are nothing if not cowards, craving order and fearing lust.
This is the truth:
All traces of the man remain.
His every dream, every desire, every deathwish is glorified by bloodlust, sweetened by the hunt, sharpened by skill.
And when you see your reflection in his feral amber gaze you see everything you ever wanted and never dared seek.
†
Cordelia wants her freedom.
It’s easy to fool herself into believing that sitting for an artist would give her that, as if baring one’s breasts and ass for a stranger ever liberated anyone.
But she wants what she’s always wanted -- what he took away. She wants to be celebrated. Worshipped. Committed to memory. Lifted high above the screams of a dying, desperate city.
In the end it’s not the scrape of pencil on Bristol board that opens her, but the touch of small, warm fingers on her belly and the succulent press of another woman’s mouth on her own.
†
Her specter curls in the furnace flames.
Laughing as she burns, taunting him still, corners curled and consumed. A budding breast, the line of her back, crosshatched lines on rag and pulp disappear and if it were that simple he would have burned her in China and danced in her ashes.
If it were that simple he never would have asked her to show him the world and instead stayed content to fight and fuck and suffer a death equivalent to his easy, pointless life.
For the first time in 250-odd years he craves his own death.
First things first.
†
It’s Angela’s idea to lighten her hair, to streak it with sun, to show off the flecks of gold in her eyes.
The delightful familiarity of breasts and thighs and supple lips above and below could be heaven if Cordy didn’t know there was no such place. There’s no coldness in Angela’s touch or in the depth of her eyes and she wishes a simple change in chromosomal composition or the addition of an ‘a’ would be enough to make her not think of him.
Make her not wonder if his mouth would be so warm if prophecies came true.
†
Their screams lull him to sleep.
He delivered them back to hell on plumes of acrid smoke and he can rest, and dream.
And dream he does, of the first woman he ever loved and the one who could have made him whole. He wakes to the slamming of a door, to the echo of a heartbeat, his last meal feeding the pulse in his cock and the ache in his heart.
All traces of the man remain.
He rises in midnight’s shadow and takes to the street to hunt for the salvation of touch and the torture of release.
†
Angela kissed the plum shadows beneath Cordelia’s eyes and drove her home. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t afraid of the seizures; they were a line of demarcation that once witnessed couldn’t be crossed. She lied and said she understood.
“I’m sorry,” Cordy said. “Thank you for everything.”
Tears are pointless but Angela has no choice in the matter. In a life of texture and depth and color she’s known little of emptiness and when it comes, hollow and fierce, she tumbles into the chasm.
They were going dancing when the lightning struck.
No time like the present to heal.
†
Every club will always be The Bronze.
Angel will forever lurk in the shadows, yearning for the other foursome in his life. He loved them as he could, even if only one knew it.
But Cordelia – the least of their saintly cornerstones – is the one he will seek until his bones return to the soil from which they were wrenched. She is a muse for his new world.
Her scent reaches him above a tide of sweat and arousal that crests and recedes with the hypnotic concussion of tribal beats. Angel waits in the cover of undulating bodies, and hunts.
†
Angela is tiny in his arms, consumed to a whisper in the night.
Cold, solid, beyond ethereal; the antithesis of the woman who’d sought joy in her arms just hours before. The distance in his eyes cushions the fall as they dance, close and slow.
She wants to mourn, but kisses him instead. His mouth is nothing like hers but she can taste Cordelia there as if she’s tasting a reflection of herself and she goes deeper than she should.
She could have loved Cordelia, lifted her high above the screams of a dying, desperate city.
It could have been.
†
Angel sups Cordelia’s essence from Angela’s silken skin and wishes the taste would sing in his veins over the bansidhe’s scream.
He devours her until her flesh reveals a stranger’s flavor and he remembers what he’s driven away.
“Stay there,” she pants, and he kneels, death-still as ink bleeds into husk and she captures his form. “Close your eyes.”
Angel obeys, as he always has. As he always will.
All traces of the man remain.
He is the subject seeking mercy in his own reflection. Anything to keep the illusion alive for another moment, another hour.
It could have been.
†††end†††
Cordy/Angela, Angel/Angela, Cordy/Angel
NC-17
Happy birthday,
samsom! I hope you like this, and that your year is filled with joy and pleasure.This takes place during A;tS Season 2 between Redefinition and Epiphany. My guess is that with Angela having lived at 25 different addresses in 6 countries in 8 years, she had to be in LA at some point!
I wrote this as a series of 12 100-word drabbles. Eep!
Diamonds on the Inside
It could have been.
He came so close to suffocating the bansidhe song that howled with every ounce of borrowed animal blood he drank.
Until they reanimated his foul, fetid mother/lover/concubine/bitch and dissolved the humanity in his grasp with a single breath.
And reanimated him.
In that moment he fell back deeper than any alley, deeper than in the birth canal of Balinasloe where he died clutching Darla’s skirts with the tang of tarry stout and the barmmaid’s cunt on his breath and rose choking on ashy graveyard filth.
Had he not already been dead it would have killed him.
†
She was bold, once.
Brazen and fearless and unconquerable and so goddamn young.
She was bold until the pain of a city assembled in her heart and fed on her, pleading and preying on the fringes of her consciousness. At first it blazed in her, lighting her with terrible beauty and she loved it, loved the sense of hope it gave her, loved the pure white torrent of possibility it unleashed in her heart.
Loved the way he caught her when she fell into its hungry maw.
When he walked away her boldness fled with the echo of his steps.
†
Tethered to impulses.
Hung on the moon by her dreams, by shadow and line and scale as she follows each phase from full to dark with charcoal stains on her fingertips and turpentine as her signature scent.
Angela takes lovers like photographs, haphazard and quirky, rich and textured, rough and raw, sacrificing technical perfection for the thrill of revealing hearts from their shadows. She brings first their desire to life on the photosensitive page and the ones she loves she chases and recreates with oils and chalk, page after page until they are perfect for one luminous moment in time.
†
The Watchers lie.
“He’s not the person you knew. He may look like one you recognize, but he is not. He’s a demon, and no trace of the man remains.”
The truth is too dangerous and alluring to reveal and Watchers are nothing if not cowards, craving order and fearing lust.
This is the truth:
All traces of the man remain.
His every dream, every desire, every deathwish is glorified by bloodlust, sweetened by the hunt, sharpened by skill.
And when you see your reflection in his feral amber gaze you see everything you ever wanted and never dared seek.
†
Cordelia wants her freedom.
It’s easy to fool herself into believing that sitting for an artist would give her that, as if baring one’s breasts and ass for a stranger ever liberated anyone.
But she wants what she’s always wanted -- what he took away. She wants to be celebrated. Worshipped. Committed to memory. Lifted high above the screams of a dying, desperate city.
In the end it’s not the scrape of pencil on Bristol board that opens her, but the touch of small, warm fingers on her belly and the succulent press of another woman’s mouth on her own.
†
Her specter curls in the furnace flames.
Laughing as she burns, taunting him still, corners curled and consumed. A budding breast, the line of her back, crosshatched lines on rag and pulp disappear and if it were that simple he would have burned her in China and danced in her ashes.
If it were that simple he never would have asked her to show him the world and instead stayed content to fight and fuck and suffer a death equivalent to his easy, pointless life.
For the first time in 250-odd years he craves his own death.
First things first.
†
It’s Angela’s idea to lighten her hair, to streak it with sun, to show off the flecks of gold in her eyes.
The delightful familiarity of breasts and thighs and supple lips above and below could be heaven if Cordy didn’t know there was no such place. There’s no coldness in Angela’s touch or in the depth of her eyes and she wishes a simple change in chromosomal composition or the addition of an ‘a’ would be enough to make her not think of him.
Make her not wonder if his mouth would be so warm if prophecies came true.
†
Their screams lull him to sleep.
He delivered them back to hell on plumes of acrid smoke and he can rest, and dream.
And dream he does, of the first woman he ever loved and the one who could have made him whole. He wakes to the slamming of a door, to the echo of a heartbeat, his last meal feeding the pulse in his cock and the ache in his heart.
All traces of the man remain.
He rises in midnight’s shadow and takes to the street to hunt for the salvation of touch and the torture of release.
†
Angela kissed the plum shadows beneath Cordelia’s eyes and drove her home. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t afraid of the seizures; they were a line of demarcation that once witnessed couldn’t be crossed. She lied and said she understood.
“I’m sorry,” Cordy said. “Thank you for everything.”
Tears are pointless but Angela has no choice in the matter. In a life of texture and depth and color she’s known little of emptiness and when it comes, hollow and fierce, she tumbles into the chasm.
They were going dancing when the lightning struck.
No time like the present to heal.
†
Every club will always be The Bronze.
Angel will forever lurk in the shadows, yearning for the other foursome in his life. He loved them as he could, even if only one knew it.
But Cordelia – the least of their saintly cornerstones – is the one he will seek until his bones return to the soil from which they were wrenched. She is a muse for his new world.
Her scent reaches him above a tide of sweat and arousal that crests and recedes with the hypnotic concussion of tribal beats. Angel waits in the cover of undulating bodies, and hunts.
†
Angela is tiny in his arms, consumed to a whisper in the night.
Cold, solid, beyond ethereal; the antithesis of the woman who’d sought joy in her arms just hours before. The distance in his eyes cushions the fall as they dance, close and slow.
She wants to mourn, but kisses him instead. His mouth is nothing like hers but she can taste Cordelia there as if she’s tasting a reflection of herself and she goes deeper than she should.
She could have loved Cordelia, lifted her high above the screams of a dying, desperate city.
It could have been.
†
Angel sups Cordelia’s essence from Angela’s silken skin and wishes the taste would sing in his veins over the bansidhe’s scream.
He devours her until her flesh reveals a stranger’s flavor and he remembers what he’s driven away.
“Stay there,” she pants, and he kneels, death-still as ink bleeds into husk and she captures his form. “Close your eyes.”
Angel obeys, as he always has. As he always will.
All traces of the man remain.
He is the subject seeking mercy in his own reflection. Anything to keep the illusion alive for another moment, another hour.
It could have been.
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Watch this now
Date: 2007-01-04 05:44 pm (UTC)you'll thank me... and understand this story better.