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My oriental paramour

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Gay FuckBook Base My oriental paramour.

Yet how quickly you forgot. A missing moment from the in famous water tank scene in 'Dear Boy'. My humble contribution to a severely underappreciated ship. He had passed days and nights dreaming of nothing but her.

He saw it even now, in a dark haze of memory and dream fragments swirling through his mind, sensual glimpses of pale flesh and red, red blood splashed across a hundred thousand throats, churches with fallen icons, lengthening shadows, and eyes only for him, glittering, endless azure, oh, he My oriental paramour do anything for those eyes, he would destroy the world just to watch them light up, for her, for Darla.

His love, My oriental paramour sweet death, his dark paramour. And now she stood before him, flesh and blood. Honey-coloured hair, soft, warm, belying the ice-cold skin and hardened heart but she's human now, Angel reminded himself.

Her brightness was deceptive, for she carried only death in those pretty white hands and laughed as she killed, adding her own silvery music to the agonised screams that signalled the ending of another life and another and another. He could not grasp it, even though he had seen so many different facets of her over the years; dressed in My oriental paramour, skin-hugging scarlet, dressed in oriental elegance, dressed in sweeping gowns that simultaneously revealed and concealed, dressed with the chaste mockery of a Catholic schoolgirl that was somehow the most erotic ensemble of them all… so many garments he had savagely torn from her porcelain body over the years, wanting to My oriental paramour only the spill of her gold hair and white, white skin, or the gush of red-hot blood as he sank his fangs into her in the midst of animal passion.

That oh-so-familiar My oriental paramour lilt, each syllable a delicious caress that seemed merely a prelude to the wicked pleasures that would follow. Just the hunger and desire. I waited through eternity for you, lover. She's hurt, he thought wonderingly. I've actually hurt her.

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My oriental paramour Four years ago, yet he could still recall it with perfect clarity. It had been instinctive.

Buffy never knew the hours he had spent confined in the darkness as he sought to forget the memories of a hundred and fifty years I'll always be with you, lover. You think just because I'm dust, I can't still haunt you? She never said Buffy's name, but her cerulean eyes met his and burned like flames.

She was going to make him pay for that, he knew. Oh, he'd had more than a taste. In her eyes and touches was death, yet she threw herself into the trappings of decadent life with a hedonistic ferocity unmatched even by him in his wildest days.

She had lived for sensual delights, drowning in the pleasures they offered, never doing anything by half measures. He remembered all too well the sharp passion in her delicate, high-boned face and laughing eyes. It had entranced him. That ecstasy of sensation, enticing and destructive as the addict's descent into an opium den as they ceaselessly gorged themselves on vice and depravity for years without remorse.

My oriental paramour very different to everything he had shared with Buffy. Buffy shone with sunlight and purity and fierce conviction. Darla was the darkness behind the sun, the cold, ivory kiss of death, the writhing sin in silken sheets.

He had thought Buffy was his salvation until he realised she was a tragedy waiting to happen; she brought him too close to the darkness. So different, and yet, in some ways, not very different at all.

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He could deny it all he liked, but the truth was that she had reawakened something in him, something that had compelled him to willingly pursue those erotic dreams, to almost rush out into the blazing glare of My oriental paramour sunlight just to follow her, to inhale the intoxicating scent of Cordelia's hair and fleetingly imagine her body laid out beneath him, something that had never happened before, and it disturbed him. Angel closed his eyes. He could feel the ancient stones of this place, what it used to be.

A convent, where the worst things he had ever done were branded into his memory. My oriental paramour had deliberately sought out those places of innocence and sanctity, relishing the irony of it. They had violated and perverted the houses of God, making a mockery of communion in the innocent blood they spilled on the sacred stones, twisting the glory of the Resurrection into something foul and corrupt, turning rising from the dead into an act of damnation.

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Oh yes, he knew this had been a convent. Memory endured and stone did not lie. It lingered on beneath the other scents of damp, hard pressed earth and the modern industrial smells, the highway above, and her scent, of course. Perfume for the darkest recesses of the soul. His dark eyes opened. Darla had moved closer and he My oriental paramour irrationally that her hair was the closest thing to sunlight he had seen in two hundred years.

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An unholy halo shrining her beautiful face take my hand and I will show you eternity. He could smell her scent above anything else now, My oriental paramour never-forgotten haze of seduction and danger, but now there was the musk of humanity, of warm skin and a pulse that beat so close to the surface… so tantalisingly close…. He shoved her away from him, violently. She stumbled in those ungraceful human shoes oh, how he used to love My oriental paramour the silken slippers from her small, delicate feet but righted herself instantly.

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He always forgot how small she was, how fragile the slender bones of her shoulders were. And with her body bound by the mortal weakness of humanity… it excited him, in some wickedly dark, primal way, the knowledge that he could break her so My oriental paramour.

My oriental paramour

And just below the My oriental paramour, sensing a change in the air, Angelus stirred. Darla was watching him narrowly, her dark green blouse hanging from one shoulder, the watered silk of her chemise visible beneath.

He knew My oriental paramour inch of that body; had mapped it out in crimson paths with his fangs and nails, had adorned it in plush velvets and light satin. Once, he would have set the world alight for her. He would have set the world alight and risked the flames for her.


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