STIGMATA
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Threesomes/Moresomes › Angel(us)/Spike(William)/Xander
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
3,991
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Threesomes/Moresomes › Angel(us)/Spike(William)/Xander
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
3,991
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Three
Title: STIGMATA
Pairings: later on: S/X, probable S/X/A(us)
Chapter: 3
Rating: R - ( NC17 later )
Warnings: DARK FIC, spoilers, religion abuse, expect anything really. Character death(s), torture, possible Non-con, angst, anything really.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, Josh unfortunately does.
My Yahoo group
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/thecolourblood/
My LiveJournal
http://www.livejournal.com/users/vampiric_mcd/
Chapter 3
Dark eyes stare at the destruction wreaked around him. There’s the acrid scent of charcoaled wood rising up into the sky, a bonfire made from holy sprinkled pieces of wood and gathered lugs. There’s an echo of death roaming these ruins all around him. He takes in the sight, or as much as the full moon let shim take in their isolated location. He chose this place carefully. He’s proud that he found it. He’s sad that he will have to leave it.
He looks at the roaring bonfire. He’s glad he’s made good use of this location.
He’s in the Highlands, Scotland. Isolated, but not alone.
The landscape is an odd combination of valleys and mountains, he’s seen clovers and he’s smelt the scent of pure clean air. Air he’s now polluting with the greyish white smoke that gradually seems to be vaporizing, dissipating with the darkness of the pitch black night.
He looks at the ruins of the abandoned little church and smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile.
He lets his hand brush over the coarseness of the stones that are still upright. He looks at the altar that storm winds have knocked over through the years. He looks at the two walls that have crumbled down after decades, if not centuries of neglect. He looks at the cross that would have been placed just by the overturned altar. The cross that had been placed by the overturned altar, only he’d given it a new place. A more suiting place.
He looks at the cross that he placed where the confessional booth once had been, before he used its sacred wooden planes to start a sacrificial fire. The cross that was upside down, in a pentagram with five black candles as focal points. Sacrilege. It’s become a way of life now.
“Bless me father, for I have sinned.” He speaks mockingly, not one grain of truth in the plea except for the part about his sins. He’s broken every code the church preaches. He’s never felt so liberated in all his life.
A weak moan grasps his attention and he turns to look at the priest he’s brought up here.
He walks towards the man, and though the priest is anything but completely coherent, he seems to shrink back with each step that he takes closer. A smile curves his lips. As much as the priest is able to shrink away, that is. He softly slaps the man on the cheek, wanting the priest’s complete attention. Softly, not because he is concerned that the man would have an ill-favoured reaction to pain, softly - because he knows he’s already caused enough pain to send the man into a sleep from which the priest would not awaken. Softly, because he wants the man to be coherent till the final end.
Bloodshot, muddy coloured eyes weakly open and he can see the desperation there. So sweet, this is part of why it makes it all worth while. The priest whines softly, and he smiles. He likes it when they know their suffering isn’t over. He loves it when he can witness the precise moment his victim realizes there isn’t any redemption for them, and no damnation beyond what he already lived for him.
“Come now father, is this any way to try and covert me to the way of Light.” He asks, cupping the man’s face.
A weak disgusted glare is his answer and he chuckles. He leans forward and kisses the man fully on the lips. He draws back and the wide eyed look of horror that crosses the priest’s face tells him that this would have been an even more efficient way of breaking his prisoner then the means of torture he used.
“No, please god no, let me die. Merciful God, please, let me die.”
He chuckles, as he caresses the priest’s naked torso. The priest’s naked, whipped torso. He brings his bloodied fingers to his lips and licks each one, savouring the explosion of taste and the weak buzz that follows. His eyes never leave the priest’s. He knows that the man is weak now, though he once was a man in his prime. He knows that it will be an hour at most before the man dies, with or without his help. The priest knows it too. All that’s left now, is seeing how much pain he can cause, before the priest blacks out. If he wants to let the priest black out.
Choices, choices.
He smiles and reaches for the travelling bag, he’s brought up the mountain. He picks out a small spear like iron bar. The sharply inhaled breath tells him that the priest is watching, that he understands what will happen. The anticipation is almost as satisfying as the actual act.
“Tell me, Judas. Will you receive clemency for your sins?”
The priest warily watches his progress as he walks towards the small basin of holy water, which he’d already unveiled. He dips the tip in the water and smiles. He brings the weapon up and faces the priest.
Fascinated by the rivulets of blood that are still trickling down the man’s face, he looks at the camera to make sure it’s still filming. The red light assures him that nothing is being missed and gleefully he smirks. He turns back and inspects the priest’s crown of thorns more carefully. They were a work of art.
“I am no Judas.” Is the weak reply and this denial of sins committed angers him more then the pleas for life and mercy had done. The priest must have seen his anger, true anger, and whimpers pitifully. The intense need to die with his last shreds of dignity and pride long gone. This whimpering creature pleading for release with every movement and sound that he makes, was once a proud man. A strong man. A man of God. Now he is a man that has been stripped bare and found unworthy in every possible meaning.
“Please, I don’t know what you mean”.
He cocks his head to the side. They always say that. They always pretend to be so good.
He snarls slightly.
“Judas will be your title, for you betrayed humanity when you made an allegiance to your church. Judas for you betrayed your vows of doing good. Judas, because you sinned.” He replies sharply.
“You sinned when you violated innocence.”
Realization seeps into the priest and he weakly shakes his head. Distressed eyes lock with his and he knows that he is very close to completely tearing the priest apart, so very satisfyingly close to breaking him mentally.
“I didn’t meant to.” The priest rasps. “I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d been drinking and please !!! I don’t deserve this – ”
Bittersweet desperation and a dash of hopelessness. Ambrosia.
He cradles his weapon to his breast, almost lovingly and walks towards the priest. He tries to jerk away but the cross to which he’s been nailed and bound leaves him little margin to move.
The lashes.
A crown of thorns.
Pierced wrists.
Pierced feet.
Nearly finished now.
“You don’t deserve this?” He asks the priest, aware of how close to dying the man really is.
Weakly the man shakes his head.
“You didn’t mean for it to happen?”
The priest just looks at him, unwilling to hope, yet not completely able to suppress a tiny amount of the emotion.
“You were drunk.”
The priests nods once.
“Do you think your Merciful God will accept you then? Do you think your God will welcome you in his realm of children, young and old? Do you think a paedophile who rapes helpless little boys will be welcomed with open arms?”
He sees the hope die a slow and painful death. He smiles. Crushed spirits were always much more fun.
“I didn’t think so either.”
And he thrusts the spear like weapon into the man’s side. The priest arches his back in pain, screaming his already hoarse throat bloody. He twists his weapon and revels in the shrieks it produces.
He lets go off the spear and knows it is only a matter of time before the priest succumbs to his wounds. He walks closer and grasps the priest’s chin. They lock gazes and he knows this will be the last words the priest will hear.
“When you come to where you are judged, tell your God that I will not stop to make my name count.”
He let’s go of the priest’s chin and the man’s head lolls forwards.
“What –” The priest croaks then falls silent, breath labouring.
He walks away from the priest and smiled. Without turning to look at the final moments of the other man’s life, he bends down as he knelt down before the overturned altar and began packing up his things.
“Tell him I said hello.”
Silence. The scent of death so very strong. He smiles as a soft clapping emerges from the shadows and he meets the gaze of a mad woman.
“Miss Edith loved it, kitten, she’ll sing and sing a song for ages about this naughty man.”
Xander Harris smiles.
“And how does the song go, Dru?”
The mad glint in her eyes turns childlike and she squeals slightly as she walks towards him, pecking him on the cheek.
“Will you sing it with us, kitten?” She asks, clapping the hand that holds Miss Edith against her empty one.
He nods and she squeals again. Eyes wide with anticipation she starts to sing.
“Ring around the rosy
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down.”
Xander looks at her, then throws his head back chuckling softly. Druscilla smiles eagerly, watching him.
“Do you like the song Miss Edith sings, kitten?”
He grins as he gathers everything.
“I like all your and Miss Edith’s songs, Dru, you know that.”
She smiled happily and whirled about, dress twirling about her.
“Sing it with us, kitten.”
Xander grins.
“Ring around the rosy
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down…”
TBC
Pairings: later on: S/X, probable S/X/A(us)
Chapter: 3
Rating: R - ( NC17 later )
Warnings: DARK FIC, spoilers, religion abuse, expect anything really. Character death(s), torture, possible Non-con, angst, anything really.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, Josh unfortunately does.
My Yahoo group
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/thecolourblood/
My LiveJournal
http://www.livejournal.com/users/vampiric_mcd/
Chapter 3
Dark eyes stare at the destruction wreaked around him. There’s the acrid scent of charcoaled wood rising up into the sky, a bonfire made from holy sprinkled pieces of wood and gathered lugs. There’s an echo of death roaming these ruins all around him. He takes in the sight, or as much as the full moon let shim take in their isolated location. He chose this place carefully. He’s proud that he found it. He’s sad that he will have to leave it.
He looks at the roaring bonfire. He’s glad he’s made good use of this location.
He’s in the Highlands, Scotland. Isolated, but not alone.
The landscape is an odd combination of valleys and mountains, he’s seen clovers and he’s smelt the scent of pure clean air. Air he’s now polluting with the greyish white smoke that gradually seems to be vaporizing, dissipating with the darkness of the pitch black night.
He looks at the ruins of the abandoned little church and smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile.
He lets his hand brush over the coarseness of the stones that are still upright. He looks at the altar that storm winds have knocked over through the years. He looks at the two walls that have crumbled down after decades, if not centuries of neglect. He looks at the cross that would have been placed just by the overturned altar. The cross that had been placed by the overturned altar, only he’d given it a new place. A more suiting place.
He looks at the cross that he placed where the confessional booth once had been, before he used its sacred wooden planes to start a sacrificial fire. The cross that was upside down, in a pentagram with five black candles as focal points. Sacrilege. It’s become a way of life now.
“Bless me father, for I have sinned.” He speaks mockingly, not one grain of truth in the plea except for the part about his sins. He’s broken every code the church preaches. He’s never felt so liberated in all his life.
A weak moan grasps his attention and he turns to look at the priest he’s brought up here.
He walks towards the man, and though the priest is anything but completely coherent, he seems to shrink back with each step that he takes closer. A smile curves his lips. As much as the priest is able to shrink away, that is. He softly slaps the man on the cheek, wanting the priest’s complete attention. Softly, not because he is concerned that the man would have an ill-favoured reaction to pain, softly - because he knows he’s already caused enough pain to send the man into a sleep from which the priest would not awaken. Softly, because he wants the man to be coherent till the final end.
Bloodshot, muddy coloured eyes weakly open and he can see the desperation there. So sweet, this is part of why it makes it all worth while. The priest whines softly, and he smiles. He likes it when they know their suffering isn’t over. He loves it when he can witness the precise moment his victim realizes there isn’t any redemption for them, and no damnation beyond what he already lived for him.
“Come now father, is this any way to try and covert me to the way of Light.” He asks, cupping the man’s face.
A weak disgusted glare is his answer and he chuckles. He leans forward and kisses the man fully on the lips. He draws back and the wide eyed look of horror that crosses the priest’s face tells him that this would have been an even more efficient way of breaking his prisoner then the means of torture he used.
“No, please god no, let me die. Merciful God, please, let me die.”
He chuckles, as he caresses the priest’s naked torso. The priest’s naked, whipped torso. He brings his bloodied fingers to his lips and licks each one, savouring the explosion of taste and the weak buzz that follows. His eyes never leave the priest’s. He knows that the man is weak now, though he once was a man in his prime. He knows that it will be an hour at most before the man dies, with or without his help. The priest knows it too. All that’s left now, is seeing how much pain he can cause, before the priest blacks out. If he wants to let the priest black out.
Choices, choices.
He smiles and reaches for the travelling bag, he’s brought up the mountain. He picks out a small spear like iron bar. The sharply inhaled breath tells him that the priest is watching, that he understands what will happen. The anticipation is almost as satisfying as the actual act.
“Tell me, Judas. Will you receive clemency for your sins?”
The priest warily watches his progress as he walks towards the small basin of holy water, which he’d already unveiled. He dips the tip in the water and smiles. He brings the weapon up and faces the priest.
Fascinated by the rivulets of blood that are still trickling down the man’s face, he looks at the camera to make sure it’s still filming. The red light assures him that nothing is being missed and gleefully he smirks. He turns back and inspects the priest’s crown of thorns more carefully. They were a work of art.
“I am no Judas.” Is the weak reply and this denial of sins committed angers him more then the pleas for life and mercy had done. The priest must have seen his anger, true anger, and whimpers pitifully. The intense need to die with his last shreds of dignity and pride long gone. This whimpering creature pleading for release with every movement and sound that he makes, was once a proud man. A strong man. A man of God. Now he is a man that has been stripped bare and found unworthy in every possible meaning.
“Please, I don’t know what you mean”.
He cocks his head to the side. They always say that. They always pretend to be so good.
He snarls slightly.
“Judas will be your title, for you betrayed humanity when you made an allegiance to your church. Judas for you betrayed your vows of doing good. Judas, because you sinned.” He replies sharply.
“You sinned when you violated innocence.”
Realization seeps into the priest and he weakly shakes his head. Distressed eyes lock with his and he knows that he is very close to completely tearing the priest apart, so very satisfyingly close to breaking him mentally.
“I didn’t meant to.” The priest rasps. “I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d been drinking and please !!! I don’t deserve this – ”
Bittersweet desperation and a dash of hopelessness. Ambrosia.
He cradles his weapon to his breast, almost lovingly and walks towards the priest. He tries to jerk away but the cross to which he’s been nailed and bound leaves him little margin to move.
The lashes.
A crown of thorns.
Pierced wrists.
Pierced feet.
Nearly finished now.
“You don’t deserve this?” He asks the priest, aware of how close to dying the man really is.
Weakly the man shakes his head.
“You didn’t mean for it to happen?”
The priest just looks at him, unwilling to hope, yet not completely able to suppress a tiny amount of the emotion.
“You were drunk.”
The priests nods once.
“Do you think your Merciful God will accept you then? Do you think your God will welcome you in his realm of children, young and old? Do you think a paedophile who rapes helpless little boys will be welcomed with open arms?”
He sees the hope die a slow and painful death. He smiles. Crushed spirits were always much more fun.
“I didn’t think so either.”
And he thrusts the spear like weapon into the man’s side. The priest arches his back in pain, screaming his already hoarse throat bloody. He twists his weapon and revels in the shrieks it produces.
He lets go off the spear and knows it is only a matter of time before the priest succumbs to his wounds. He walks closer and grasps the priest’s chin. They lock gazes and he knows this will be the last words the priest will hear.
“When you come to where you are judged, tell your God that I will not stop to make my name count.”
He let’s go of the priest’s chin and the man’s head lolls forwards.
“What –” The priest croaks then falls silent, breath labouring.
He walks away from the priest and smiled. Without turning to look at the final moments of the other man’s life, he bends down as he knelt down before the overturned altar and began packing up his things.
“Tell him I said hello.”
Silence. The scent of death so very strong. He smiles as a soft clapping emerges from the shadows and he meets the gaze of a mad woman.
“Miss Edith loved it, kitten, she’ll sing and sing a song for ages about this naughty man.”
Xander Harris smiles.
“And how does the song go, Dru?”
The mad glint in her eyes turns childlike and she squeals slightly as she walks towards him, pecking him on the cheek.
“Will you sing it with us, kitten?” She asks, clapping the hand that holds Miss Edith against her empty one.
He nods and she squeals again. Eyes wide with anticipation she starts to sing.
“Ring around the rosy
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down.”
Xander looks at her, then throws his head back chuckling softly. Druscilla smiles eagerly, watching him.
“Do you like the song Miss Edith sings, kitten?”
He grins as he gathers everything.
“I like all your and Miss Edith’s songs, Dru, you know that.”
She smiled happily and whirled about, dress twirling about her.
“Sing it with us, kitten.”
Xander grins.
“Ring around the rosy
Pocket full of posies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down…”
TBC