she must rinse this all away
● Since my last post seemed to be a pretty big hit, I have decided to post up a master list of the drabbles I wrote, so I can keep them in one spot. I am still working on a few, so the ones who haven't had theirs written yet, bear with me. I would love everyone's feedback on these, and if anyone else wants to request anything, do so here.
●
drabble list
001. when i am with you, i feel flames again (r) | darla/angelus | requested by woven using this icon.
→ She told him once that she would show him things that he could never dream of.
She wasn't kidding.
Their meal for the night - a fragile, slipping thing - squeals and sobs in the corner until she is reduced to nothing more than chirruping whimpers. Angelus almost wishes that they hadn't gagged her, because he is sure her pleas would be positively marvelous.
Darla leaves no times for regrets, and her hands grapple onto his shoulders with a strength that would surprise anyone but him. His hands, all marble and ice, reach out for the top edge of the corset. Absently, he thinks about the night he bought the delicate, frilly piece for her, and it brings a smirk to his lips. Since he was the one that bought it in the first place, he feels no pang of guilt when he rips it down the middle, and watches her pale breasts spill free from the confining material.
As if to pay him back, she shreds his shirt with little more than a flick of her wrists and a pressing of her nails; terrible, sharp nails that can tear him asunder.
Darla bites him, then - hard enough to make him growl. He can't help but to think that, were he not use to this by now, he might have come right then and there. Instead, he returns the favor.
By the time they roll off of one another, their bodies are canvases of scarlet whorls and streaks from nails and fangs alike, and both of their mouths are smeared with the other one's blood like some kind of grotesque smile.
People say love is a blood sport.
Theirs is a blood bath.
002. how to save a life (pg-13) | supernatural | requested by worthless_hope using this icon.
→ Dean is going to lose his brother.
He feels it in his heart, feels it in his aching bones, feels it in every fucking fiber of his being.
But there is nothing he can do.
All of his life, he has been the one to protect his brother - to protect his Sammy. As long as Sam has been alive, Dean has been the one to make sure he is okay, whether that meant shooting a demon between the eyes or making sure a stubborn nine-year-old ate his cereal.
Sammy has always been the good one, the one with the bright smile and the kind eyes. But now Dean is looking at him, desperate to find a trace of the little brother he has sworn to protect.
There's nothing there.
No trace of familiarity, nothing to recognize him by.
When he realizes that he doesn't even recognize the dark eyes looking back at him, he turns away.
As he tries to compose himself, his hand over his mouth and his eyes screwed shut, he remembers something he read once, a rarity in itself.
This is how the world ends, Dean thinks, and dares to spare a sidelong glance to his brother over his shoulder.
Not with a bang. They were supposed to be until the end of the world. He and Sam - they were going to be the ones that fought the darkness back and won. And hell, even if they didn't win, they were supposed to have one another.
Dean has never felt more alone in his life, than he does in that moment.
He already misses Sammy, and he is only five feet away.
But a whimper.
003. taking on water (pg) | buffy summers | requested by organza using this icon.
→ This must be what drowning victims feel like when they realize, without a doubt, that they are sinking. Hopeless. Alone. Cold.
Every time Buffy opens her mouth to breathe, she feels as if it is not air that she takes in, but water; chilling water that burns as it reaches her lungs, sloshes to and fro in the pit of her stomach.
Anything is better than drowning, Buffy thinks as she weaves her way through the headstones and concrete angels that she knows by heart. Restfield cemetery is probably the largest of the thirteen cemeteries in Sunnydale, but she has come here so many times that she can recite the names on the tombstones without hesitation.
For years, all Buffy has done is tread water just to stay afloat. But now, the current has proven to be stronger than even she, and all she can do is watch as the surface of the water - glittering and golden with a dusting of sun - disappears without a trace as she sinks deeper into the depths.
Buffy doesn't know when she might breach the surface again, but as she settles down on one of the familiar tombstones, she knows that it will be a very, very long time.
004. got the headstones all ready (pg-13) | buffy/angel | requested by stillamempty using this icon.
→ Angel's eyes go from wide and horrified to half-lidded and hungry in a split second, and the way he looks at her serves as a caress to every single one of her erogenous zones. She shivers once, maybe twice, but doesn't even consider changing her mind.
She trusts him. God help her, she trusts him enough to let him do this.
Without hesitation, her hand reaches up and finds a home somewhere at the back of his head. There is a moment, terrifying and raw, where they both can do nothing more than look at each other. Now it is Buffy's eyes that are wide and telling, but she swallows the fear back and holds him even tighter. He is looking for a reassurance; something to tell him that it will all be okay.
A second or two later, and Angel's face is a blur that ends up in the crook of her neck. He hesitates, his strong hands unsure and trembling at her biceps. Buffy's breath is erratic, while her own heart beats so loud that she think she can hear it in her own ears.
When he bites her, she is almost certain that she hears him groan something into the bleeding flesh of her throat.
"Mine."
005. if i only could make a deal with god (g) | bones | requested by corleones using this icon.
→ You would think that, with as much death Temperance has seen in her lifetime, that she would not be so terrified to die. But when she looks over at Hodgins, she can feel the familiar warmth of tears licking at the back of her eyes.
This is the end of the line.
Temperance has lost time. She doesn't know how long they have been in this car, buried beneath however many feet of dirt and rocks, but it has been long enough to deplete their air supply, and she knows the lightheadedness she is feeling is the onslaught of sleep. And sleep, in this case, will lead to death.
If Hodgins' plan doesn't work, they are going to fall asleep, and within a handful of minutes after that, their lungs will collapse in on themselves from the lack of air.
Of course, there's always the possibility that the explosion will kill them before that happens.
Either way, their chances of getting out of here are slim to none, and Temperance has never been one to sugarcoat things. Even so, she is hoping with everything she has that, come tomorrow, she and Hodgins will be back at the lab.
"Ready?" she asks, and shifts nervously in the seat, her eyes pleading with Hodgins, looking for a sliver of hope that he is usually so good at supplying.
He doesn't disappoint.
"Yeah," Hodgins replies, offering a tiny quirk of his bearded cheek. "Dr. Brennan, it's been a privilege."
When she hugs him, his arms are sure and strong, not at all like her own that tremble at his back.
The explosion sets off just a few seconds after she feels the tear push past her eyelid, and make the slow journey down the curve of her cheek.
006. ashes on your eyes (g) | veronica/logan | requested by forbiddenxspark using this icon.
→ Logan is a loaded canon. He is a broken toy, a forgotten son, a derailed train.
And Veronica loves him.
God help her, she loves this boy in her arms. How had they gotten to this point in time? It seemed like it was just yesterday that their relationship was only as deep as the cutting remarks they could throw back and forth without blinking an eye. They had gone from semi-friends to enemies to lovers without any kind of smooth transition in between.
They shouldn't work. She and Logan are entirely different beings, crafted from different materials and textures, and stitched together with pieces from different quilt works.
They shouldn't work, but they do.
Veronica hears his breath hitch once or twice, his voice an airy wheeze of despair, and she wishes more than anything that she could take away his pain. But she can't. All she can do is hold him, her hands tracing smooth, easy circles at his back and the nape of his neck.
Veronica feels his sorrow like it is her own sufferance, and she feels a familiar ache behind the ladder of her ribs that reminds her just how far out of her element she is.
I love you, Logan Echolls, she thinks, but doesn't say it aloud.
They really don't write songs about the ones that come easy.
007. all that glitters (pg-13) | the air i breathe | requested by underworld using this icon.
→ There is no greater enemy than a mirror. She has been staring at it for over an hour in the faux sanctuary of this tiny room. If Fingers knew that she was just sitting there - hollow and silent - instead of practicing for her upcoming performance, he would be furious.
She can't find the will to care.
Through walls and doors, she can hear the crowd screaming her name. "Trista!" they cry, waving their signs and clawing at each other to get closer to the stage. Like animals. Hungry, vicious vultures that will do anything to get a moment of her time.
She wonders if they know that Trista isn't even her real name.
If it's up to her, they never will. No one will ever know her real name. There was one person that she told her name to, and she watched him die a slow, painful death in her arms not a week ago. And it was all because of her.
As she picks up a lipstick case, she can't help but think that she will never forgive herself. Why would she?
Tears cling to her mascara-coated eyelashes when she lifts the lipstick, presses it against the glass, and writes out a slow, red message.
All that glitters is gold.
008. frozen oceans (pg) | mal/inara | requested by worthless_hope using this icon.
→ He calls her a whore.
What else is he supposed to do? Mal has never been particularly adroit in the art of showing his emotions. Captains don't have that luxury. No, they are supposed to be the ones made of stone, able to push away feeling in favor of what's needed at any given moment. Emotions just get in the way.
He has learned that the hard way on more than one occasion.
There is something different about it this time. Usually, the two of them go back and forth with witty banter and sharp words that neither of them really mean. But when he calls her a whore this time, something in the air changes. It's subtle, nothing more than a lowering of her dark eyelashes and a slight turn of her head, but he instantly regrets ever saying such a thing.
The truth is, he respects her. Loves her. Wants her. Each time she sees a client, it eats him up inside because he knows that there is no way those men (and occasionally women) will honor her when the morning comes around. Not like him. He will love her until his weathered heart stops beating.
But he can't say it.
Instead, he captures her wrist when she turns to walk away. His gentility even surprises himself. Malcolm Reynolds is a tough man, a little rough around the edges, but he grasps her wrist as if he is handling the finest of china. A moment or two passes, each of them looking at one another, expecting everything and nothing at the same time.
When he kisses her, he hopes that she can taste the "I love you" on his tongue because, for now, he just can't say it.
For now.
009. you can be my cherry cola (pg) | sophia bush/jensen ackles | requested by worthless_hope using this icon.
→ It all started with a party and a beer passed back and forth between two hands.
In all honesty, neither of them had even planned to attend. Jensen was exhausted, too many 18 hour days on the set and not enough sleep. Sophia had other plans, but had been roped into going by Bethany and the tiny, mischievous smile that the woman always seemed to use when she wanted something to go her way.
By the time that the party had ended, Sophia and Jensen were practically inseparable. It wasn't their first time to meet; they had seen each other around at some of the other parties that the CW put on, but it was their first time to actually sit down and talk. Turns out, they hadn't been able to stop talking.
Jensen would tell her about a prank he pulled on Jared, and she would laugh so hard that her sides hurt. At one point, he was almost sure that he could hear a tiny snort come from the tiny brunette, and it was quite possibly the cutest thing he'd heard in all of his life.
That was a few months ago, and nothing has changed.
Sophia texts Jensen when she hears about another party that they're expected to be at, but neither of them really minds, because they have been looking forward to another excuse to see each other in a way that won't have the tabloids raging the next day.
At the end of the party, they are two of the few people left in the room, and neither of them want to leave any time soon.
When someone asks for a picture, they happily oblige, and lean in closer - maybe closer than necessary for a picture - and his hand comes up to cup the back of her head, some of his fingers getting lose in the silk-like waves there.
Even after the person walks away, he doesn't move his hand.
010. she can't hold him this way (pg) | buffy/angel | requested by meltintowalls using this icon.
→ Angel is trembling in her arms.
She holds onto him for dear life, her arms winding around his back while her chin finds the crook of his shoulder. It takes her a while to put the pieces together, and when she does, it is like a deadbolt sliding into its corresponding lock.
Angel is back.
She is holding Angel in her arms, something she was sure that she would never get to do again.
Relief, beautiful and golden like sunrise, settles over Buffy all at once, and she clings to him tighter. Lips part, eyes close behind twin curtains of dark lashes, and Buffy thanks whatever god will listen. Warmth blooms behind her eyelids; tears of joy that don't yet pour down her flushed cheeks. To think that, just seconds ago, Buffy had been poised and ready to deliver the fatal blow that would take Angel away from her forever.
Now, the sword in her hands feels clumsy and cold, but she doesn't drop it simply because it is the last thing on her mind.
For the first time in a long time, Buffy knows that everything will be okay. Finally, she feels as if she can breathe, and Buffy nearly chokes on the air now that the weight of mourning has been lifted from her chest.
That's when she opens her eyes.
Acathla's mouth - such a terrible mouth at that - is opening wide, its jaws extending to unbelievable widths while its stone face shifts and becomes even more malevolent than before. Acathla is hungry, and it plans on making the world its first course on the meal plan.
Something tears inside of Buffy then, something violent and devastating, and she realizes with little more than a whimper what it is that is tearing apart. It is her hope. It is the very last strands of sanity, and all she can do is hold onto Angel as they fray and slip away, as intangible and transient as smoke.
The spell was too late.
Buffy wants to scream, but the sound simply refuses to fight its way up from her chest. She knows what she must do, but the thought alone makes her hold him tighter, her free hand burying into his jacket, refusing to let him slip away. Not like this. Buffy knows the good of the many outweighs the good of the one, but she simply cannot accept that. What is the loss of a world full of people she doesn't know, when paired up against the loss of a man who she loves with every bit of her soul?
It isn't fair.
It isn't fair, and that's the only thing Buffy can think as she pulls away from his embrace slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. He must notice the agony that is written across the planes of her face, because he speaks up, his voice a hoarse, confused slash in the silence of the room.
"What's happening?" he asks, and Buffy wants to tell him. She wants to tell him that the world is ending and she doesn't care. But she doesn't. Instead, Buffy only offers as reassuring of a smile as she can muster, shaking her head gently as she does so. "Shh," she replies. "Don't worry about it. I love you."
When he says it back, she wants to die right then and there.
This is the end of the line.
"Close your eyes," Buffy whispers, almost hoping that he won't. It would be so much easier if he didn't trust her like he does. But Angel trusts her with his life, just as he always has, and he lets his dark eyelashes fall in cheek-cutting angles. He is the most beautiful thing that she has ever seen in all of her seventeen years of life, and it takes every bit of her will power not to reach out and trace his lips with the pad of her finger.
But Buffy is weak, always has been, and she doesn't stop herself from leaning forward to kiss him. She pours everything into the kiss, knowing it will be their last. Words she cannot say rest on her tongue, and she hopes - prays - that he will forgive her somehow. That he will understand.
Of course he doesn't.
When the sword's unforgiving blade slams into the center of his chest, his eyes open wide with disbelief, and she takes a staggering step away from his outstretched arm. Angel says her name on a sound of terrible agony as the portal behind him rages and spins outward, its tendrils working around Angel in such a way that Buffy thinks they might rip him backward and into the belly of the beast.
Angel, she thinks, frozen as she watches Angel slump forward. I'm so sorry.
And then he is gone.
There's no explosion, no kind of warning. There is just ... nothing. The portal took him away, and Buffy is now standing alone. At first, she can only stand there. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is agape in shock, but she can do nothing.
She feels something die in her, and her shock wears off in terrible, insurmountable waves.
Angel is gone.
There is only one thing she can do now, and that is press her hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs that wrack her body.
011. ??? | eric (trueblood) | requested by thepookybear using this icon.
→ coming soon!
012. ??? | cordelia chase | requested by torigates using this icon.
→ coming soon!
013. ??? | faith (as buffy) | requested by killmotion using this icon.
→ coming soon!
014. ??? | fight club | requested by drusilla using this icon.
→ coming soon!
015. ??? | jon/janey (watchmen) | requested by bornbackwards using this icon.
→ coming soon!
●
drabble list
001. when i am with you, i feel flames again (r) | darla/angelus | requested by woven using this icon.
→ She told him once that she would show him things that he could never dream of.
She wasn't kidding.
Their meal for the night - a fragile, slipping thing - squeals and sobs in the corner until she is reduced to nothing more than chirruping whimpers. Angelus almost wishes that they hadn't gagged her, because he is sure her pleas would be positively marvelous.
Darla leaves no times for regrets, and her hands grapple onto his shoulders with a strength that would surprise anyone but him. His hands, all marble and ice, reach out for the top edge of the corset. Absently, he thinks about the night he bought the delicate, frilly piece for her, and it brings a smirk to his lips. Since he was the one that bought it in the first place, he feels no pang of guilt when he rips it down the middle, and watches her pale breasts spill free from the confining material.
As if to pay him back, she shreds his shirt with little more than a flick of her wrists and a pressing of her nails; terrible, sharp nails that can tear him asunder.
Darla bites him, then - hard enough to make him growl. He can't help but to think that, were he not use to this by now, he might have come right then and there. Instead, he returns the favor.
By the time they roll off of one another, their bodies are canvases of scarlet whorls and streaks from nails and fangs alike, and both of their mouths are smeared with the other one's blood like some kind of grotesque smile.
People say love is a blood sport.
Theirs is a blood bath.
002. how to save a life (pg-13) | supernatural | requested by worthless_hope using this icon.
→ Dean is going to lose his brother.
He feels it in his heart, feels it in his aching bones, feels it in every fucking fiber of his being.
But there is nothing he can do.
All of his life, he has been the one to protect his brother - to protect his Sammy. As long as Sam has been alive, Dean has been the one to make sure he is okay, whether that meant shooting a demon between the eyes or making sure a stubborn nine-year-old ate his cereal.
Sammy has always been the good one, the one with the bright smile and the kind eyes. But now Dean is looking at him, desperate to find a trace of the little brother he has sworn to protect.
There's nothing there.
No trace of familiarity, nothing to recognize him by.
When he realizes that he doesn't even recognize the dark eyes looking back at him, he turns away.
As he tries to compose himself, his hand over his mouth and his eyes screwed shut, he remembers something he read once, a rarity in itself.
This is how the world ends, Dean thinks, and dares to spare a sidelong glance to his brother over his shoulder.
Not with a bang. They were supposed to be until the end of the world. He and Sam - they were going to be the ones that fought the darkness back and won. And hell, even if they didn't win, they were supposed to have one another.
Dean has never felt more alone in his life, than he does in that moment.
He already misses Sammy, and he is only five feet away.
But a whimper.
003. taking on water (pg) | buffy summers | requested by organza using this icon.
→ This must be what drowning victims feel like when they realize, without a doubt, that they are sinking. Hopeless. Alone. Cold.
Every time Buffy opens her mouth to breathe, she feels as if it is not air that she takes in, but water; chilling water that burns as it reaches her lungs, sloshes to and fro in the pit of her stomach.
Anything is better than drowning, Buffy thinks as she weaves her way through the headstones and concrete angels that she knows by heart. Restfield cemetery is probably the largest of the thirteen cemeteries in Sunnydale, but she has come here so many times that she can recite the names on the tombstones without hesitation.
For years, all Buffy has done is tread water just to stay afloat. But now, the current has proven to be stronger than even she, and all she can do is watch as the surface of the water - glittering and golden with a dusting of sun - disappears without a trace as she sinks deeper into the depths.
Buffy doesn't know when she might breach the surface again, but as she settles down on one of the familiar tombstones, she knows that it will be a very, very long time.
004. got the headstones all ready (pg-13) | buffy/angel | requested by stillamempty using this icon.
→ Angel's eyes go from wide and horrified to half-lidded and hungry in a split second, and the way he looks at her serves as a caress to every single one of her erogenous zones. She shivers once, maybe twice, but doesn't even consider changing her mind.
She trusts him. God help her, she trusts him enough to let him do this.
Without hesitation, her hand reaches up and finds a home somewhere at the back of his head. There is a moment, terrifying and raw, where they both can do nothing more than look at each other. Now it is Buffy's eyes that are wide and telling, but she swallows the fear back and holds him even tighter. He is looking for a reassurance; something to tell him that it will all be okay.
A second or two later, and Angel's face is a blur that ends up in the crook of her neck. He hesitates, his strong hands unsure and trembling at her biceps. Buffy's breath is erratic, while her own heart beats so loud that she think she can hear it in her own ears.
When he bites her, she is almost certain that she hears him groan something into the bleeding flesh of her throat.
"Mine."
005. if i only could make a deal with god (g) | bones | requested by corleones using this icon.
→ You would think that, with as much death Temperance has seen in her lifetime, that she would not be so terrified to die. But when she looks over at Hodgins, she can feel the familiar warmth of tears licking at the back of her eyes.
This is the end of the line.
Temperance has lost time. She doesn't know how long they have been in this car, buried beneath however many feet of dirt and rocks, but it has been long enough to deplete their air supply, and she knows the lightheadedness she is feeling is the onslaught of sleep. And sleep, in this case, will lead to death.
If Hodgins' plan doesn't work, they are going to fall asleep, and within a handful of minutes after that, their lungs will collapse in on themselves from the lack of air.
Of course, there's always the possibility that the explosion will kill them before that happens.
Either way, their chances of getting out of here are slim to none, and Temperance has never been one to sugarcoat things. Even so, she is hoping with everything she has that, come tomorrow, she and Hodgins will be back at the lab.
"Ready?" she asks, and shifts nervously in the seat, her eyes pleading with Hodgins, looking for a sliver of hope that he is usually so good at supplying.
He doesn't disappoint.
"Yeah," Hodgins replies, offering a tiny quirk of his bearded cheek. "Dr. Brennan, it's been a privilege."
When she hugs him, his arms are sure and strong, not at all like her own that tremble at his back.
The explosion sets off just a few seconds after she feels the tear push past her eyelid, and make the slow journey down the curve of her cheek.
006. ashes on your eyes (g) | veronica/logan | requested by forbiddenxspark using this icon.
→ Logan is a loaded canon. He is a broken toy, a forgotten son, a derailed train.
And Veronica loves him.
God help her, she loves this boy in her arms. How had they gotten to this point in time? It seemed like it was just yesterday that their relationship was only as deep as the cutting remarks they could throw back and forth without blinking an eye. They had gone from semi-friends to enemies to lovers without any kind of smooth transition in between.
They shouldn't work. She and Logan are entirely different beings, crafted from different materials and textures, and stitched together with pieces from different quilt works.
They shouldn't work, but they do.
Veronica hears his breath hitch once or twice, his voice an airy wheeze of despair, and she wishes more than anything that she could take away his pain. But she can't. All she can do is hold him, her hands tracing smooth, easy circles at his back and the nape of his neck.
Veronica feels his sorrow like it is her own sufferance, and she feels a familiar ache behind the ladder of her ribs that reminds her just how far out of her element she is.
I love you, Logan Echolls, she thinks, but doesn't say it aloud.
They really don't write songs about the ones that come easy.
007. all that glitters (pg-13) | the air i breathe | requested by underworld using this icon.
→ There is no greater enemy than a mirror. She has been staring at it for over an hour in the faux sanctuary of this tiny room. If Fingers knew that she was just sitting there - hollow and silent - instead of practicing for her upcoming performance, he would be furious.
She can't find the will to care.
Through walls and doors, she can hear the crowd screaming her name. "Trista!" they cry, waving their signs and clawing at each other to get closer to the stage. Like animals. Hungry, vicious vultures that will do anything to get a moment of her time.
She wonders if they know that Trista isn't even her real name.
If it's up to her, they never will. No one will ever know her real name. There was one person that she told her name to, and she watched him die a slow, painful death in her arms not a week ago. And it was all because of her.
As she picks up a lipstick case, she can't help but think that she will never forgive herself. Why would she?
Tears cling to her mascara-coated eyelashes when she lifts the lipstick, presses it against the glass, and writes out a slow, red message.
All that glitters is gold.
008. frozen oceans (pg) | mal/inara | requested by worthless_hope using this icon.
→ He calls her a whore.
What else is he supposed to do? Mal has never been particularly adroit in the art of showing his emotions. Captains don't have that luxury. No, they are supposed to be the ones made of stone, able to push away feeling in favor of what's needed at any given moment. Emotions just get in the way.
He has learned that the hard way on more than one occasion.
There is something different about it this time. Usually, the two of them go back and forth with witty banter and sharp words that neither of them really mean. But when he calls her a whore this time, something in the air changes. It's subtle, nothing more than a lowering of her dark eyelashes and a slight turn of her head, but he instantly regrets ever saying such a thing.
The truth is, he respects her. Loves her. Wants her. Each time she sees a client, it eats him up inside because he knows that there is no way those men (and occasionally women) will honor her when the morning comes around. Not like him. He will love her until his weathered heart stops beating.
But he can't say it.
Instead, he captures her wrist when she turns to walk away. His gentility even surprises himself. Malcolm Reynolds is a tough man, a little rough around the edges, but he grasps her wrist as if he is handling the finest of china. A moment or two passes, each of them looking at one another, expecting everything and nothing at the same time.
When he kisses her, he hopes that she can taste the "I love you" on his tongue because, for now, he just can't say it.
For now.
009. you can be my cherry cola (pg) | sophia bush/jensen ackles | requested by worthless_hope using this icon.
→ It all started with a party and a beer passed back and forth between two hands.
In all honesty, neither of them had even planned to attend. Jensen was exhausted, too many 18 hour days on the set and not enough sleep. Sophia had other plans, but had been roped into going by Bethany and the tiny, mischievous smile that the woman always seemed to use when she wanted something to go her way.
By the time that the party had ended, Sophia and Jensen were practically inseparable. It wasn't their first time to meet; they had seen each other around at some of the other parties that the CW put on, but it was their first time to actually sit down and talk. Turns out, they hadn't been able to stop talking.
Jensen would tell her about a prank he pulled on Jared, and she would laugh so hard that her sides hurt. At one point, he was almost sure that he could hear a tiny snort come from the tiny brunette, and it was quite possibly the cutest thing he'd heard in all of his life.
That was a few months ago, and nothing has changed.
Sophia texts Jensen when she hears about another party that they're expected to be at, but neither of them really minds, because they have been looking forward to another excuse to see each other in a way that won't have the tabloids raging the next day.
At the end of the party, they are two of the few people left in the room, and neither of them want to leave any time soon.
When someone asks for a picture, they happily oblige, and lean in closer - maybe closer than necessary for a picture - and his hand comes up to cup the back of her head, some of his fingers getting lose in the silk-like waves there.
Even after the person walks away, he doesn't move his hand.
010. she can't hold him this way (pg) | buffy/angel | requested by meltintowalls using this icon.
→ Angel is trembling in her arms.
She holds onto him for dear life, her arms winding around his back while her chin finds the crook of his shoulder. It takes her a while to put the pieces together, and when she does, it is like a deadbolt sliding into its corresponding lock.
Angel is back.
She is holding Angel in her arms, something she was sure that she would never get to do again.
Relief, beautiful and golden like sunrise, settles over Buffy all at once, and she clings to him tighter. Lips part, eyes close behind twin curtains of dark lashes, and Buffy thanks whatever god will listen. Warmth blooms behind her eyelids; tears of joy that don't yet pour down her flushed cheeks. To think that, just seconds ago, Buffy had been poised and ready to deliver the fatal blow that would take Angel away from her forever.
Now, the sword in her hands feels clumsy and cold, but she doesn't drop it simply because it is the last thing on her mind.
For the first time in a long time, Buffy knows that everything will be okay. Finally, she feels as if she can breathe, and Buffy nearly chokes on the air now that the weight of mourning has been lifted from her chest.
That's when she opens her eyes.
Acathla's mouth - such a terrible mouth at that - is opening wide, its jaws extending to unbelievable widths while its stone face shifts and becomes even more malevolent than before. Acathla is hungry, and it plans on making the world its first course on the meal plan.
Something tears inside of Buffy then, something violent and devastating, and she realizes with little more than a whimper what it is that is tearing apart. It is her hope. It is the very last strands of sanity, and all she can do is hold onto Angel as they fray and slip away, as intangible and transient as smoke.
The spell was too late.
Buffy wants to scream, but the sound simply refuses to fight its way up from her chest. She knows what she must do, but the thought alone makes her hold him tighter, her free hand burying into his jacket, refusing to let him slip away. Not like this. Buffy knows the good of the many outweighs the good of the one, but she simply cannot accept that. What is the loss of a world full of people she doesn't know, when paired up against the loss of a man who she loves with every bit of her soul?
It isn't fair.
It isn't fair, and that's the only thing Buffy can think as she pulls away from his embrace slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. He must notice the agony that is written across the planes of her face, because he speaks up, his voice a hoarse, confused slash in the silence of the room.
"What's happening?" he asks, and Buffy wants to tell him. She wants to tell him that the world is ending and she doesn't care. But she doesn't. Instead, Buffy only offers as reassuring of a smile as she can muster, shaking her head gently as she does so. "Shh," she replies. "Don't worry about it. I love you."
When he says it back, she wants to die right then and there.
This is the end of the line.
"Close your eyes," Buffy whispers, almost hoping that he won't. It would be so much easier if he didn't trust her like he does. But Angel trusts her with his life, just as he always has, and he lets his dark eyelashes fall in cheek-cutting angles. He is the most beautiful thing that she has ever seen in all of her seventeen years of life, and it takes every bit of her will power not to reach out and trace his lips with the pad of her finger.
But Buffy is weak, always has been, and she doesn't stop herself from leaning forward to kiss him. She pours everything into the kiss, knowing it will be their last. Words she cannot say rest on her tongue, and she hopes - prays - that he will forgive her somehow. That he will understand.
Of course he doesn't.
When the sword's unforgiving blade slams into the center of his chest, his eyes open wide with disbelief, and she takes a staggering step away from his outstretched arm. Angel says her name on a sound of terrible agony as the portal behind him rages and spins outward, its tendrils working around Angel in such a way that Buffy thinks they might rip him backward and into the belly of the beast.
Angel, she thinks, frozen as she watches Angel slump forward. I'm so sorry.
And then he is gone.
There's no explosion, no kind of warning. There is just ... nothing. The portal took him away, and Buffy is now standing alone. At first, she can only stand there. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is agape in shock, but she can do nothing.
She feels something die in her, and her shock wears off in terrible, insurmountable waves.
Angel is gone.
There is only one thing she can do now, and that is press her hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs that wrack her body.
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