about that massage


Rating: PG13
Posted: May 9, 2002
Notes: A direct follow-on from Art For Art's Sake.




I must have imagined or wished for the things I saw in that sketch. That love and need and longing. All in my over-eager, over-needy, over-pathetic imagination.

After she had rubbed away my annoying kiss, she took another look at the picture in her hand. The blood drained from her face - not a good look unless you’re dead - she muttered "crap" under her breath and scrunched up the paper.

It was crap. Nothing there. Imagined crap.

It isn’t as though she actually promised me a massage. It was more of a joking and-or. A kiss or a massage. To ease my tension.

And I never reminded her of it either. I couldn’t. Ever. Not after that kiss. Could I have embarrassed her more?

"Garmph…"

and a quick, self-conscious wipe of her hand against newly swollen mulberry-juiced lips… no, lips of intoxicating, heady port wine that...

"Don’t worry about it, Angel."

I didn’t. Worry. Or think about it. To worry you need to think and I’ve had trouble thinking straight for a few weeks now. Somehow it is better not to think, especially if the thinks revolve around, centre on and take life from my Cordelia.

So I tune out. Drift off into that other world of then or, even better, of nothing. Until she calls me back or I fall down the rickety stairs of a subterranean demon den. In this case, the rickety stairs of the basement, cracking a thick skull and wrenching an already aching, demon battered back.

I get bruised a lot in my line of redemption. No biggie. Happens all the time. Bleeding cuts, gaping gashes, colourful bruises, nasty little splinters, itchy scabs, pustulant muck on silk. Normal.

Usually I’m cosseted and patched and sent out to see what new wounds I can come up with.. Why today was different, I don’t know, but the clattering and yelling as I tumbled down in the darkness attracted both her attention and her immediate concern. I didn’t stand a chance.

Would I have stopped her? It isn’t as though I had to do as she said. Not in theory. But, Cordelia, remember? Those barely audible half-formed Cordy wishes can become roaring commands in my mind. Under her thumb? Me? Nuh. I can put my foot down any time. I just didn’t feel like doing much with my feet today. Not after diving and crashing down the steps.



"About that massage... "

"Huh?"

"Now would be a good time with your back bones all Quasimodo."

"Ummm, technically Quasimodo was..."

"Clothes off and lie down."



She poked at me until I stood, suddenly shrivelled from a six foot one man-pire to a two foot two wrinkled leprechaun in yesterday’s boxers. I had to lie on the floor on a bath towel, arms outstretched and securely anchored, hanging grimly onto the legs of an over-heavy chair. A Cordy safety precaution apparently.

"Marble. Oil. All slidey."

Like a seal on ice, but not as cute, so she said. I don’t know, a big blue ball and some sardines...

Anyway, I had to be on the floor. Fortunate, really. The last thing I wanted was to be on a soft, springy, bouncy, up-close bed with Cordelia on top of me doing all the up downy motions and smoothing her hands all over my oily, up downy body. Yep, the very last thing.

Back to the floor. The floor didn’t move and it was cold, even through the towel. Reassuringly cold.

The oil smelt odd. I guess I thought Cordy would have a supply of delicately scented lotions but this one was definitely pea-nutty. Surely Connor wouldn’t have minded sharing his baby oil with his old dad, would he? Did she need to resort to the kitchen? As it was, it smelt as if she were about to fry me. Huh, she’s always been able to do that with just a sizzling glance.



"Ouch!"

"Sorry. Finger slippage. No real damage. Relax."



Relax? How could I relax? If I relaxed while she was doing what she was doing to me the chances were I’d enjoy myself and that wouldn’t be pretty, cold marble or no cold marble. A cold marble slab, heh, just like me... or my meat laid out on the cold marble slab... My slab of meat laid out... Getting my meat laid… and that’s the stuff that gets me into trouble.

Shit, I love her! I’m a cultured, sensitive vampire, aren’t I? All that brooding and old books. Shouldn’t I be comparing her reverently to lines from an Elizabethan poem or even writing one myself, honouring her limitless perfections in a sonnet? Thy skin like morning dew… or from her arched brows, such a grace sheds… I will make thee beds of roses... Christ, they were no better than me, just wrapping up their horny love in pretty words.

Pretty words. Pretty smells. The aroma of a ripe Cordelia. God, she smelt rich and as she bobbed up and down over me each rhythmic movement of her hips and thighs sent a fresh whirl of lush, moist scent to settle on the back of my tongue, like drying pippins and new cut hay and the giggle of a plump, rosy-cheeked, love-ruffled girl. I could taste it all in Cordelia.

And she pummelled and rubbed and swooshed with her hands and dug into me with her fingers in a satisfyingly unpractised way.

Ugh. The marble wasn’t anywhere near cold enough.

I needed to sink into an inner Cordy-less sanctuary, but I didn’t know if one existed.



"I saw Sven and Mary today - you know, the store I go to for fresh fruit? I mean, I thought they were just friends, but nope - today all hand-holdy and big shiny grins. I felt embarrassed interrupting them for just a pound of green apples. They looked so sweet together, like love was this huge wonderful surprise…"



A surprised blush, when I kissed her the other day, and then the enticing pulse quickening at the base of her slim neck. Such a slender neck, strong and soft skinned. Some days, if I’m quiet, I can sit and watch the tiny leap of life within the hollow of her throat. If I’m extra quiet I can hear the swish, swoosh of blood where it runs so close to sunlight. Sunbeam flavoured blood. Close my eyes and I can smell the sweetness as it rushes to the spot before it’s pushed around into miniscule rivulets, tinting her cheeks, flushing the delicate skin around her nipples, adding a glowing sheen to those mulberry wine lips before rushing to swell and tingle and tease her precious cunny...



"Aaarhm..."

"Angel? What?"

"S’ nothing."



Something. The something of then. Back then.

That tasty young couple courting under a yew-hedge in the moonlight. Where the moonlight failed to dim the apple red cheeks, I succeeded with ill mannered haste.

Blood tinged with the excitement of a new found love. Their first love. My first deathly love in a shimmery laneway between Claddagh and Galway. Still learning about un-death and need, grasping at the pain and confusion within, I poured my lust and pain into the tavern-maid as she lay fading in the grass, her pale fingers clutching at the turf as though mother earth could sustain her life. Instead, her blood filled me but, hell, she wasn’t any fun.

No fun, no satisfaction. Not in a passionless, still form. After that I knew to take my fun first, in a screaming, slick, writhing, warm passage. That delightful pressure of a tight and refusing passage, any passage.

Blood-warm and blood-slick and pleading.

Her hands swooshing all over, warm and slick and her narrow waist, a supple hand-span and peach brown nipples and my fingers swooshing inside, all slick and warm and tasting of honey with a hint of blood...



"...and it’s such a deep down fear that I don’t talk or think about it much, at all, ever, until - I mean, here it is, wouldn’t you know, coming out all by itself and... so what if I care too much? More than I did last year even. I get so confused. You’re such a complex guy, psychotic killer one minute and potential Wiggle - thankfully without the singing - the next... remind me to buy that cd for Connor... it’s mind-blowing."



Nothing.

The silence of nothing.

Drop into the safety of swirling, tumbling emptiness.



"I thought we’d all have to go on being alone but I guess… if it were to happen… you have to take love where you find it. Even when it’s kinda scary or it has… difficulties. Doesn't every relationship have problems? Toilet seats and toothpaste and in-laws, so what's a curse? I mean, otherwise you miss out. And I … I don’t want to miss out. I’m tired of missing out. Angel? What do you think?"










"Angel? About love… like me and, and you… sort of, maybe even… together…"










"Angel? Well eyes open usually means awake. Hey, but it’s okay, I won’t mention it again. Forget I said anything. Blame good old PMS and downright sexual frustration. Yep? No embarrassment necessary.

Okay?

We’re good?

I guess I’ll take that… nothing response… as… a totally squicked I-can-hear-you-but-I’m-pretending-I-can’t-so-I-don’t-have-to-talk-about-it-type-of-fine?

Fine!

I can repress.

This conversation never happened."






Disclaimer: The characters are Joss Whedon's, Mutant Enemy's and probably a heap of other people about whom I know nothing.
I lay no claim to ownership of the characters, I simply like to ask them out to play now and then.