Spoilers: "Smashed" and thereafter.
Author: Keith Duval (Maladetto Lupo)
E-mail: Lobishomen@aol.com, maladettolupo@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13, nothing explicit.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. etc. You know how it goes.
Summary: S/B. Spike reflects on the nature of their relationship.
Iniquity...
***
"Living with my lies,
Feeding on myself,
I don't know what it means,
But it really can't be bad.
...
If it helps to get you through this,
It really can't be bad."
--CrashPalace, "Whatever Gets You Through"
***
You open your eyes. She's still there, next to you, her head on your heart; blonde curls falling across your chest. Go ahead, touch her; make sure she's real. You know you have to. You always do. She stirs a little, making a soft, catlike whimper against your skin. This is it, you know. This is as good as it gets for you. A nice house in the suburbs, a white picket fence, 2.3 kids and a little Boston terrier running around the yard, these things aren't in the cards; not for guys like you, anyway. But you have this, mate. The time between just then and when the sun comes up. Five minutes or five hours, this is the closest you'll ever get to heaven. It's the you-and-her time, the time when it's not about catharsis. It's not about desperation or terrible secrets or the way she can't hear your heart screaming for her so loud it splits your ears. It's just about this: A man, an honest-to-god flesh-and-blood man, and the woman he loves, snuggled warm and safe in bed where the world can't find them.
But sooner or later, she's going to wake up, and then it'll start again.
"No one can know..."
And then she'll go, and the door will slam, and you'll be left alone. In the dark. Just like always, with her scent still clinging to the sheets. Vanilla and jasmine. Sweat, blood, and tears.
And the sun will go down, and there she'll be again, taut and torn and silent, her eyes hungry, angry, begging. And you'll give in. You always do. And she'll rip, and you'll tear, and she'll scream and you'll ravage, regular as clockwork.
Tonight, she raked her nails down your chest, leaving bloody trails after them. You snarled as she leaned into you, lapping at the blood like an animal. Like a vampire. And she pulled you to her, hissing into your ear: "Do it. Bite me."
"No, love. I can't."
"Yes you can." There were tears in her eyes. "Do it...Please." And she moved against you in that way that makes reason mean absolutely fuck all.
"No. I won't." But it was there inside you, clawing at you, pounding in your temples, demanding attention. So you did what you had to. And when it was over, she lay there, heaving against you. And there were no words.
And now, you're back where you always are, in the time before the light. The scratches on your chest are still throbbing, and her taste is still in your mouth, but with the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the slow beating of her heart, and the warmth of her skin against yours, the moment is close enough to normal that you can fool yourself.
No. Don't close your eyes.
**end.
Author: Keith Duval (Maladetto Lupo)
E-mail: Lobishomen@aol.com, maladettolupo@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13, nothing explicit.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, etc. etc. You know how it goes.
Summary: S/B. Spike reflects on the nature of their relationship.
Iniquity...
***
"Living with my lies,
Feeding on myself,
I don't know what it means,
But it really can't be bad.
...
If it helps to get you through this,
It really can't be bad."
--CrashPalace, "Whatever Gets You Through"
***
You open your eyes. She's still there, next to you, her head on your heart; blonde curls falling across your chest. Go ahead, touch her; make sure she's real. You know you have to. You always do. She stirs a little, making a soft, catlike whimper against your skin. This is it, you know. This is as good as it gets for you. A nice house in the suburbs, a white picket fence, 2.3 kids and a little Boston terrier running around the yard, these things aren't in the cards; not for guys like you, anyway. But you have this, mate. The time between just then and when the sun comes up. Five minutes or five hours, this is the closest you'll ever get to heaven. It's the you-and-her time, the time when it's not about catharsis. It's not about desperation or terrible secrets or the way she can't hear your heart screaming for her so loud it splits your ears. It's just about this: A man, an honest-to-god flesh-and-blood man, and the woman he loves, snuggled warm and safe in bed where the world can't find them.
But sooner or later, she's going to wake up, and then it'll start again.
"No one can know..."
And then she'll go, and the door will slam, and you'll be left alone. In the dark. Just like always, with her scent still clinging to the sheets. Vanilla and jasmine. Sweat, blood, and tears.
And the sun will go down, and there she'll be again, taut and torn and silent, her eyes hungry, angry, begging. And you'll give in. You always do. And she'll rip, and you'll tear, and she'll scream and you'll ravage, regular as clockwork.
Tonight, she raked her nails down your chest, leaving bloody trails after them. You snarled as she leaned into you, lapping at the blood like an animal. Like a vampire. And she pulled you to her, hissing into your ear: "Do it. Bite me."
"No, love. I can't."
"Yes you can." There were tears in her eyes. "Do it...Please." And she moved against you in that way that makes reason mean absolutely fuck all.
"No. I won't." But it was there inside you, clawing at you, pounding in your temples, demanding attention. So you did what you had to. And when it was over, she lay there, heaving against you. And there were no words.
And now, you're back where you always are, in the time before the light. The scratches on your chest are still throbbing, and her taste is still in your mouth, but with the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the slow beating of her heart, and the warmth of her skin against yours, the moment is close enough to normal that you can fool yourself.
No. Don't close your eyes.
**end.