TITLE: Coffee Black (1/1)
AUTHOR: Remy Allegory (remyallegory@yahoo.com)
TIMEFRAME: Started 9-24-01 / Finished 9-24-01
RATING: R, for bad words and blood.
SPOILERS: None, unless you're way out of the loop and read between lines.
SUMMARY: Our experiences form who we are -- or, aren't. A little, B/S vignette. Set post-resurrection
DISTRIBUTION: Take and ye shall receive. Just send me the address so I can be narcissistic and stuff.
FEEDBACK: "Is James Marsters hot?" -Wanda
DISCLAIMER: Count Von Whedon owns it all. I am but a poor serf who thinks too much.
COFFEE BLACK
"I am covered in skin // No one gets to come in // Pull me out from inside // I am folded
and unfolded and unfolding // I am ready I am ready I am ready // I am Fine."
"Colorblind," Counting Crows
There's quiet desperation in running blood. In something so red it's almost
blue, pooling in the dips of fine lines and soft skin soft lips. A hungry
despondency borne of past experience and its definition of love, of hazy
lines between pain and pleasure, anger equals interest equals love. Simple
arithmetic construed and blurred so there are no longer any lines, there is
no hurt and there is no peace, only sore muscles and the act of feeling.
It's a process, now.
The same song playing in the background, the slight buzz of a piano key or a
violin string gnawing at whatever concentration it's stealing, whatever
eardrum it's raping; the same silk undergarments, cool and somewhat itchy,
but matching and part of the sadistic tradition that has formed for reasons
neither can truly name or fathom; the razorblade he always tries to hide, hide in
her wooden dresser or under the mattress, where he always hides it, where
she always finds it, silver and sharp and thin, liquid almost.
The same words whispering in the spaces between ears; words he can't ignore
and she can't stop spewing; she's such an influential girl. He's wanted her
skin for so long, and he won't stop wanting it, because he's forever, because he
exists in something outside of time. And she gives him what he needs to hear and
he gives her what she wants, even though it will probably be the third-death of
her, someday, when his lips suckling her flesh isn't enough, when the blade
becomes too dull to break the skin, when the scars fade, when the music
stops and the pain becomes pain again, in that brief moment of white-hot
clarity that preludes the slick-black wings of death...no, the wings of
something *worse* than death, the fallen velvet curtain of slow
self-destruction.
A black soul is moon-ivory against a black heart.
The barbed edge of her hoary savior floats above the sallow skin formed by
the lines of her watch, the big bulky blue watch she wears to hide the
marks. And here it comes, his pleading hurt angry voice: "Stop that." But he
won't waste the energy of saying anything more, because it's futile, because
it's air, because he knows: some part of him doesn't care.
"I can't."
The sting is exquisite, like ice across her xylophone spine. It's a
tuesday-night ritual of marring perfect flesh because she hates perfect
flesh. Because everything should be flawed and nothing is deserving of a
second chance and nobody deserves to come back.
And she came back.
She slices horizontally, to avoid full-fledged suicide; she likes to believe she's
stronger than that. Her thighs tighten their clutch on his waist as she
straddles him, so he can't bail, though she suspects he's too
weak-willed to want to. He closes his eyes in defeat, in failure, in shame
for his broken promises and anemic threats and rapidly hardening
anticipation.
It boils to the surface quickly, as though it had always been there, just
never quite as dark. She watches it for a moment; then: "Spike...drink."
She vaguely remembers an ex-boyfriend with such a nasty habit. She kicked
his skull in and he left because he had been everything and everything
wasn't enough. She'll remember his name if she tries. She never tries.
He hesitates because it's wrong, and this matters because it's *Her* resting
on his stomach, because it's Buffy offering herself. Because she dies a
little more each time closes his eyes and he remembers how bad it was the first
time she left, and now it's *him* driving her away. He'll have no one else to
share the blame, and this time, when he blames himself, it will not be
empty.
Her arm is shaking slightly as he clasps his long, slender fingers around
her bony wrist and pulls it closer to his thirsty lips, but it's okay
because his hands are always shaking. His mind absently registers the irony
that is his unlife. Then: So much blood for skin and bone. And once again
it returns to Nothing as he licks, first, with his cold, cat-like tongue,
tracing small designs on the wrist, sometimes random letters of the
alphabet, vowels followed by the more jagged letters, sometimes her name,
sometimes juvenile symbols of guilt or hope; then, as he swallows the first
of her blood, tasting the acid of this morning's rain, the grease of
yesterday's chicken, the very slight coppery-tang that he knows is Angel.
(How He got there, Spike doesn't know.)
And if the razorblade splicing her wrist is the pain of ice, then this is
the pain of fire, igniting in between her thighs and toes and over her gut
and collarbone.
Jesus fucking christ it feels good.
He drinks so little, enough to make him want to vomit, and it's barely
anything. Her heart hasn't even begun to slow. But his throat closes itself
off, and he knows if he doesn't stop now he'll be tasting her for days.
The moment he tears his head away she has her mouth on his, devouring it, as
though she were searching specifically for the taste of her own blood; or
maybe she's searching for his, because she bites down on his lower lip,
splitting skin with her incisors, as her hands worm their way through the
buttons of his jeans, over the course, light hair of his lower-abdomen,
before working their way downward towards the darker curls.
And with the same force her desperation had consumed him, it releases him.
She's inherently angry, but instincts can be disowned. Her frustrated
disposition, her lack of understanding and like-minded companions, her need
to hurt and appease - they disappear like dust in front of the fan. Sad
fingers rip clothing, but her fingers are only caressing.
This is what he drinks to.
No more teeth or talons or sharp objects. Just warmth, glimpses of the girl
he fell in love with and can't let go, of what she was before things went so
very bad. Before the blooming bruises and bloodletting and silent tears.
He can feel her healthy heartbeat as she stretches out on top of him, gently
kissing and licking and nipping the soft skin under his chin, trailing her
way down his neck, then, quickly, back up to his lips, where she lingers for
quite some time, apparently content, but he can never really tell these
days. He steals a glance at her arm, enough to see that the wounds are
already beginning to heal underneath the thin layer of dried blood.
He needs this kind of reassurance, because he knows nothing short of unclotted
blood will let him stop.
He kisses her back.
THE END
AUTHOR: Remy Allegory (remyallegory@yahoo.com)
TIMEFRAME: Started 9-24-01 / Finished 9-24-01
RATING: R, for bad words and blood.
SPOILERS: None, unless you're way out of the loop and read between lines.
SUMMARY: Our experiences form who we are -- or, aren't. A little, B/S vignette. Set post-resurrection
DISTRIBUTION: Take and ye shall receive. Just send me the address so I can be narcissistic and stuff.
FEEDBACK: "Is James Marsters hot?" -Wanda
DISCLAIMER: Count Von Whedon owns it all. I am but a poor serf who thinks too much.
COFFEE BLACK
"I am covered in skin // No one gets to come in // Pull me out from inside // I am folded
and unfolded and unfolding // I am ready I am ready I am ready // I am Fine."
"Colorblind," Counting Crows
There's quiet desperation in running blood. In something so red it's almost
blue, pooling in the dips of fine lines and soft skin soft lips. A hungry
despondency borne of past experience and its definition of love, of hazy
lines between pain and pleasure, anger equals interest equals love. Simple
arithmetic construed and blurred so there are no longer any lines, there is
no hurt and there is no peace, only sore muscles and the act of feeling.
It's a process, now.
The same song playing in the background, the slight buzz of a piano key or a
violin string gnawing at whatever concentration it's stealing, whatever
eardrum it's raping; the same silk undergarments, cool and somewhat itchy,
but matching and part of the sadistic tradition that has formed for reasons
neither can truly name or fathom; the razorblade he always tries to hide, hide in
her wooden dresser or under the mattress, where he always hides it, where
she always finds it, silver and sharp and thin, liquid almost.
The same words whispering in the spaces between ears; words he can't ignore
and she can't stop spewing; she's such an influential girl. He's wanted her
skin for so long, and he won't stop wanting it, because he's forever, because he
exists in something outside of time. And she gives him what he needs to hear and
he gives her what she wants, even though it will probably be the third-death of
her, someday, when his lips suckling her flesh isn't enough, when the blade
becomes too dull to break the skin, when the scars fade, when the music
stops and the pain becomes pain again, in that brief moment of white-hot
clarity that preludes the slick-black wings of death...no, the wings of
something *worse* than death, the fallen velvet curtain of slow
self-destruction.
A black soul is moon-ivory against a black heart.
The barbed edge of her hoary savior floats above the sallow skin formed by
the lines of her watch, the big bulky blue watch she wears to hide the
marks. And here it comes, his pleading hurt angry voice: "Stop that." But he
won't waste the energy of saying anything more, because it's futile, because
it's air, because he knows: some part of him doesn't care.
"I can't."
The sting is exquisite, like ice across her xylophone spine. It's a
tuesday-night ritual of marring perfect flesh because she hates perfect
flesh. Because everything should be flawed and nothing is deserving of a
second chance and nobody deserves to come back.
And she came back.
She slices horizontally, to avoid full-fledged suicide; she likes to believe she's
stronger than that. Her thighs tighten their clutch on his waist as she
straddles him, so he can't bail, though she suspects he's too
weak-willed to want to. He closes his eyes in defeat, in failure, in shame
for his broken promises and anemic threats and rapidly hardening
anticipation.
It boils to the surface quickly, as though it had always been there, just
never quite as dark. She watches it for a moment; then: "Spike...drink."
She vaguely remembers an ex-boyfriend with such a nasty habit. She kicked
his skull in and he left because he had been everything and everything
wasn't enough. She'll remember his name if she tries. She never tries.
He hesitates because it's wrong, and this matters because it's *Her* resting
on his stomach, because it's Buffy offering herself. Because she dies a
little more each time closes his eyes and he remembers how bad it was the first
time she left, and now it's *him* driving her away. He'll have no one else to
share the blame, and this time, when he blames himself, it will not be
empty.
Her arm is shaking slightly as he clasps his long, slender fingers around
her bony wrist and pulls it closer to his thirsty lips, but it's okay
because his hands are always shaking. His mind absently registers the irony
that is his unlife. Then: So much blood for skin and bone. And once again
it returns to Nothing as he licks, first, with his cold, cat-like tongue,
tracing small designs on the wrist, sometimes random letters of the
alphabet, vowels followed by the more jagged letters, sometimes her name,
sometimes juvenile symbols of guilt or hope; then, as he swallows the first
of her blood, tasting the acid of this morning's rain, the grease of
yesterday's chicken, the very slight coppery-tang that he knows is Angel.
(How He got there, Spike doesn't know.)
And if the razorblade splicing her wrist is the pain of ice, then this is
the pain of fire, igniting in between her thighs and toes and over her gut
and collarbone.
Jesus fucking christ it feels good.
He drinks so little, enough to make him want to vomit, and it's barely
anything. Her heart hasn't even begun to slow. But his throat closes itself
off, and he knows if he doesn't stop now he'll be tasting her for days.
The moment he tears his head away she has her mouth on his, devouring it, as
though she were searching specifically for the taste of her own blood; or
maybe she's searching for his, because she bites down on his lower lip,
splitting skin with her incisors, as her hands worm their way through the
buttons of his jeans, over the course, light hair of his lower-abdomen,
before working their way downward towards the darker curls.
And with the same force her desperation had consumed him, it releases him.
She's inherently angry, but instincts can be disowned. Her frustrated
disposition, her lack of understanding and like-minded companions, her need
to hurt and appease - they disappear like dust in front of the fan. Sad
fingers rip clothing, but her fingers are only caressing.
This is what he drinks to.
No more teeth or talons or sharp objects. Just warmth, glimpses of the girl
he fell in love with and can't let go, of what she was before things went so
very bad. Before the blooming bruises and bloodletting and silent tears.
He can feel her healthy heartbeat as she stretches out on top of him, gently
kissing and licking and nipping the soft skin under his chin, trailing her
way down his neck, then, quickly, back up to his lips, where she lingers for
quite some time, apparently content, but he can never really tell these
days. He steals a glance at her arm, enough to see that the wounds are
already beginning to heal underneath the thin layer of dried blood.
He needs this kind of reassurance, because he knows nothing short of unclotted
blood will let him stop.
He kisses her back.
THE END