cordy69: (Default)
Nominated for Round 6 of Running with Scissors
Nominated

Nominated for Round 11 of Fang Fetish



Well, here is my earliest try at fan-fic, hope you like it a bit too. Please send any criticism away I need to improve! Thanks, Pat.


Title: Tomorrow’s Light
Author: Pat
Rating: PG, AtS, Word Count: 1778
Content: End of S1 C/A friendship
Category: Slight angst, Angel POV; see summary
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, and no profit is made.
Distribution: Anywhere you fancy as long as you ask and let me know!



Tomorrow’s Light, by Pat



I finally make it home; in one piece. Tonight fight was harder than expected. I had not been mentally prepared and my battered body is proof of that mistake. Don't get me wrong, the skill for holding my own with the underbelly of the demon world is sharp. It is just that, right now, finding the urge to use that skill seems to be my problem. Now, stepping into the elevator shaft, I feel the calming wash of relief begin to soothe my aches and pains.

Let’s face it, before Doyle intruded in my life, giving me a friend, anger was my motivation. I wasn’t just angry; I was enraged at the fates decisions to give me what I wanted without any prospect of having it. Whistler offered me the opportunity to make a difference but it was my love for Buffy that made me want it.

Only years later, I broke her heart, and life broke mine in return. Leaving Sunnydale was my most miserable moment and in my long undead life there had been a lot of those. Choosing to live apart from a world desecrated by my evil reign can no longer be blamed as the source of my misery. Accepting that the curse will always prevent me from having what I want is a slow, torturous death. Obviously what the gypsies had in mind.

As a lone vigilante, I was ridding the world of demons and quenching my swell of rage. Doyle said I needed a humanizing influence; that small connection to life that could save me from my dangerous path and those with the misfortune to cross it. I concurred.

Wesley is translating a new prophecy, something about Shanshu. We don’t know what it means for us. If I’m lucky maybe it will explain where I lost my focus. Wesley thinks Cordelia probably miss-filed it. Right now I have more faith in Cordelia’s ability to reinvent the alphabet system than the cryptic nuances of strangers. So here I am, emotional upheaval and bruised muscles, searching for that inner strength to continue. Tonight I may settle for finding the couch.

I inhale the spicy fragrance wafting into my confined space. Cordelia is downstairs. Listening to the deafening silence a small alarm sounds inside my head. Cordelia Chase is never silent! Stepping from the elevator, I find her lost in daydreams, the Cosmo cover paling against her perfect, scarlet nails.

A raised brow asks why she is at my apartment so late. Her answer is given with doe eyed integrity; she wants to spend time with her champion, her friend. I am stunned by the clarity that seems so simple to her. A few painful strides and I tower over her insisting I am not a champion; not even close.

Cordelia gives me a quizzical look pointing out that I have always been a champion and always will be. She reminds me that Doyle would think so too. ‘Get out’ my mind chants incessantly as I wander if my anger will be returning but her loud gasp snaps me out of it. She grasps the extent of my many injuries and scolds me for being stubborn and standing there, marveling at the combination of adrenaline, physical strength and stupidity that makes it possible.

Within seconds, Cordelia is at my side herding me toward the bed. With delicate but determined touches she removes my leather coat and battle worn shirt. I see the horror etch across her beautiful face. She sees nothing but male pride gleam from mine. Now I feel like a champion; a champion writhing in pain but a champion nonetheless.

She gives my shoulder a gentle push urging me to sit down before running for her first aid supplies. With the wound on my thigh, sitting is more painful than standing but the pain seems to fade a little when she is back by my side.

Cordelia is like a whirlwind spinning about the room. A warm cup of blood in my hand, I feel the cool swab of alcohol soaked cotton on my back. Closing my eyes I give into the feel of her fingers as she carefully places each bandage over a freshly cleaned gash. I feel the warmth of her breath as she blows against my skin hoping to ease the sting. Her innocence doesn’t understand I enjoy the pain; it is, after all, one of the few sensations I can take pleasure in without risk. But I am a fool missing the pain when I can bask in the care and attention my friend lavishes on me with her generous heart. Thankful for it, I start enjoying the feeling of being attended to.

Kneeling between my thighs Cordelia reaches for my drained cup and set it aside. I drop my empty hands letting them rest on my laps, open palms up trying to center myself and reach deep in the pool of restrained power tai-chi practice gives me, while she fusses over the blood drying on my chest and throat. I can’t help but worry; if my injuries heal too quickly I’ll lose the tender attention of her warm hands. Lost in the sensation of being touched, I focus on the young woman willingly surrounded by my body; she finds a wound still open and I sigh in relief knowing it will last a little longer.

Her head tilts slightly and I slip a little further in my thought, absorbed by the teeth gently biting her lower lip in concentration. Her dark hair, cascading on the side, where now caressing my abdomen imperceptibly and spreading her fruity scent around us. Her fingers were fast roaming over me, and that made me a little shaky. Too many sensations and the blood loss were starting to take their toll and I reveled in that strange atmosphere.

My chest injuries cleaned and bandaged, Cordelia pushes me gently onto the bed. A lifetime of adhering to the ‘avoid or bite’ philosophy summons me to resist. The need to hold onto the innocence of her accepting touch just a little longer pushes the warning aside. I close my eyes giving into her compelling gesture.

She’s removing my boots, gently but efficiently. I now feel her fingers on my belt; a breath catches in my throat quickly leaving. Her movements relaxed, never faltering, she works the button and zipper opening my pants to reveal another bloody wound. The word amazing echoes in my mind, she is truly amazing, this young woman, my friend. My last wound receives its own tender care, my body now clean and bandaged the natural healing process can begin.

Softly she squeezes my hand and I open my eyes to her affectionate smile, she let me know that tonight I will get the full benefit of the soothing Chase treatment. I agree with a small nod and a strained smile. She holds a bottle of lotion and I watch as it pours into her hand, warming against the heat of her flesh. It smells of lavender, it smells of her and the warning is calmed again.

My eyes close once more and I feel the gentle shifting of my bed. With her body by my head and her knees at my shoulders she inches above me and starts to let the droplets of cream from her hands fall onto my torso. What a sensation! I was so surprised by the effect I could not stop the shiver that made my body tremble. She pauses, lingering over me and then resumes slowly and tantalizingly the action.
I loved the unpredictability of it, never knowing where and when the next drop will be. Having both of her hands at work and my eyes closed, I experienced each of them as separate sources of pleasure.

My body shudders as soft hands touch my chest massaging the warm lotion into my skin. I tremble but without a pause, she continues her broad and enticing movements. The hand circling my navel tickles and I feel my tired face smile. Warm lotion drips onto my left nipple and I moan at the sensation. Her fingers lavish attention on my pulse point ignoring I don’t have one. Thick cream, its texture almost erotic seeps along the waist of my pants teasing flesh that should have been covered by boxers. Underwear had not been considered when dressing. My ego’s satisfaction smirks at me.

She stills and my body stiffens after several long seconds of missing her touch. Settling now above my hip, long slender legs tucked under firm, feminine curves, she cradles my left arm on her lap. She kneads knotted muscles, stretches fingers curled against denied desire, the heat of her hands radiate into joints chilled by death and loneliness.

Motion svelte and gentle slips her over my body and she settles on the opposite side, lavishing my other arm with the same gentle care. The closeness is intoxicating making me dizzy with its deluge of want and need. Blood courses through veins hidden beneath soft skin kissed by the warmth of the sun. It calls to me like a beacon in my dark world welcoming me home.

Another easy shift and she straddles me. With broad strokes spanning from that intimate place just above my groin to my shoulders she smoothes the creamy warmth into my flesh. Circles long and short are soothing, lulling me to sleep but caresses sweeping across my chest and stomach are invigorating and sway common sense to other indulgences.

I am surprised by my reaction, not that Cordelia Chase isn’t a beautiful woman, but that the ever present warning is so easily coaxed into submission. Humans, especially those allowed close, couldn’t be considered food, could never be considered sexual. Disturbed by the fact that my body noticed her that way, I push the fear aside and open my eyes finding her luscious breasts just inches from my face.

Roll over, her soft voice calls out and I willingly concede, hiding the evidence of my forbidden stirrings. She touches every inch of flesh covering my back. My spine, stiff from battle and dangerous desires, is tenderly massaged and stretched. The digits of her warm hands follow the vertebras to every aching pressure point she can find. The pads of her fingers work perfectly easing the tight muscles in my neck and shoulders.

She hums a quiet tune calming my restlessness, releasing the remaining tension and easing the lingering fear. With a drowsy thank you I give into my need to rest. I feel the shift of the bed as I slip into sleep and I whisper, Cordy…stay.


The End


~*~

Note: The point of this little exercise by Lysa was to explore a scene from the perspective of sensation. I chose to challenge myself with Scenario #3 describe here:
Season 1 or 2, Post-Doyle Era. Angel has a boo-boo and Cordelia has to fix it. He’s all aches & pains, really. The poor manpire needs a massage. Hmm. I did say that clothing was supposed to be on for this. I suppose we can make his shirt an exception.
Feedback: Yes please!
Notes: Thank you Stormy for the beta. Thanks to Anne (yep you know who you are girl), for your support, and Cyd cause you gave me so much here, without you this wouldn’t have resurfaced.

cordy69: (Default)
This is the first work of fiction I ever did for the Whedonverse world.

Ats, PG, Season 1, Word Count: 826

Nominated at Sunnydale Awards (Fall 2011)



The Morning After, by Pat


The morning after, no one ever writes about that. I'm not talking about a night of party hardy where too many drinks are followed by a few frisky innuendoes but the one where you get your teeth knocked in by a truth you're not ready to invite into your life. The morning when reality hits you where it hurts, making you aware that you will set one foot ahead of the other and continue a life without him and without his dreams. It is the morning that seals your pain, your anger, and your hopes into a web of cluttered emotions that will change you forever.


I woke up in Angel's bed; he probably took my curled up form from his sofa and brought me here after the last of my tears exhausted me and sent me into a fitful sleep. With a faint headache I remember every minute of last night. Neither of us could talk and we sat here, in Angel's apartment, trying to hold even the slightest grip on the evening's events. I monopolized the sofa unable to find the strength to voice my pain, my head full of adjectives and expletives colliding without the least sense of organization. I look at Angel hoping to make that connection I think I need to wake from the nightmare of Doyle's death.


Angel didn't touch me or reach out last night, we just walked side by side and now he's sitting silently in the chair in front of me. Anchored to his deep chocolate gaze, I'm not really looking at Angel; I'm seeing his soul and a clear reflection of my grief. In that dark hue, the storm of my hurt and incredulity, my defeated psyche is fighting with too many realities to confront. Holding my gaze, he too remembers the Doyle we knew and his contribution to our lives. I can't find the words, yes Cordelia Chase is at a loss for words, and I can't rationalize let alone explain all that Doyle was to me, all that he gave, all that could have been.


The sparkles in Angel's eyes make me wonder if he's going to cry. I don't understand how he can be so stoic because I haven't been able to hold back my tears. The stars now shining in his Glare tell me he is as unforgiving as I am to myself. How could we have failed the one that brought us together? In that moment I realize what Doyle's passing means. Angel and I are more than friends now, we are a family with an obligation to stay true to Doyle's memory.


With relief, I accept the offered glass of water and Angel's disappearance into the kitchen. My eyes close and I feel the sobs wracking my body with each memory of who our friend was, what he could have been, of what he couldn't forgive in himself. With every cry, I visualize what I had, what I missed, and what I could have wanted. I had to open my eyes; being in the dark with thoughts of what might have been was more than I could take.


Walking into the kitchen I sat across from Angel with a new understanding of who we are, and the tragedy that had hit us. His hand reaches out to seize my trembling fingers before faltering and returning to the table. His intense gaze tells me of all the pain he was in, of all the friends he has already buried and of the unyielding belief that he should have been the one the perished hero.


I slide my hand closer to his and with shiny eyes will Angel to see that his need to share his strength is enough. Silently I inch closer to his face asking him to never let go, telling Angel I need him now and forever. The golden ambers watching me finally recede into the dark brown eyes I have come to trust.


Those stolen moments feel like an eternity, the squint at the corner of his eyes finally opens the door to his acceptance of the inevitable; saying adieu to his extraordinary friend. I wasn't ready yet and rising from my chair I popped in the video before returning to the sofa with Angel following my every movement. For now I'll let Doyle's face accompany my sorrow, his voice calm my weeping and Angel's watchful eyes escort my mind to a more peaceful sleep.


Soon the aroma of strong coffee will reach our sleeping senses and with wary eyes Angel and I will rise to start a new path, continuing a life without Doyle but not without his dreams. A youth passed surviving the hellmouth of Sunnydale and a new life along the side of an experienced Master of pain will teach me to keep the gift of the first soldier down in my mind. Today will be our morning after.



End.


~*~

Note:

I would like to thank Lysa for the suggested exercise, as well as CydneStorm and Stormy for the great beta work.

This was about looking and the scenario I picked on for working was:
AtS Episode: between Hero & Parting Gifts
Cordelia and Angel are still in shock and mourning Doyle. This can happen at the office, in Cordy’s apartment or Angel’s place. This ‘look’ is angsty and heartbreaking and whatever else you want to put into it…as long as everything is conveyed only with their eyes.

I hope you guys and gals will survive my first fiction post...



Nominated for Round 11 of Fang fetish Awards

community.livejournal.com/fangfetish/32847.html
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