No Need for Lucifer to Fall
by Sophia Jirafe
Classification: Vignette
Rating: Strong R for sexual situations
Spoilers: Through "Life Serial"
Archive: Permission required, *links only*. Please respect this request.
Feedback: skepticgirl@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Characters used belong to Mutant Enemy and various other
corporate entities. Title quote belongs to Liz Phair. No infringement
intended or money being made.
Summary: "No need for Lucifer to fall, if he'd learn to keep his
mouth shut."
*********
He doesn't get up until halfway through the night now, just for her.
Because the first time he tried to turn on the lamp, she squirmed
away and knocked it off with a quick hand, shattering the bulb on
the stone floor. He knows it has to be dark for her, that she can't
sneak down into his dank crypt if there's the slightest possibility
she'll be seen by anyone, friend or foe.
There are certain things she will and will not do. She won't kiss him
on the mouth. She won't kiss him below the waist. She will only lick
and lick and suck his neck, stab his small nipples with her tongue,
run her useless teeth over his hard shoulder. She pulls him on top
of her like a security blanket every time.
If he reaches a hand after her when she wriggles out from under the
sheets, she ignores it. If he tries to speak to her as they fit
together, she holds his lips shut with a finger. If he doesn't move
within a minute or so of finishing, she roughly pushes him away.
He can do almost as he pleases, however. His teeth slip over her
body, changing between dull and sharp, and when he nips her
delicately she makes a strange sound, almost a whimper, almost
a laugh. She wants him to bite her harder sometimes, and only
the memory of pain stops him.
She likes to be pinned down tightly, and she likes to be slammed
into, and she doesn't like to be held afterwards. If he were a
bonehead mortal like Xander, he'd be in heaven.
Silly word that, heaven. So stupid of him to even think it. He tries
not to use the word, but there are so many casual phrases containing
it. Even language is a minefield now, which is why they only talk
when his mouth is full of her.
***
She likes to pretend he doesn't know she's there.
She tiptoes in on her tiny sneaky feet and stands over him, so close
he can smell her, the kills she's made so far, the kills she wants
to make.
She peels off those little scraps she calls clothing and tosses them
into a pile next to the bed, easy access for a quick getaway.
She slithers in with him, barely disturbing the sheets, his own
sly ghost.
She faces the wall, and it's always up to him to make the first
move. Always.
***
He wonders if she has a fucking clue what he thinks about on these
nights. She seems to live inside her own head nowadays. He can hardly
blame her. He doesn't want to think about this either, any of it.
Mostly he doesn't want to think about why she told him. Was it was
because she trusted him above anyone else? Or because she didn't
care enough to hide her darkest secret from him? Either way it hurts.
Hurts to know she trusts him but can fuck him like a stranger, hurts
to know it doesn't matter to her that he lies awake in the day,
trying to imagine what it feels like to lose heaven.
They swim in darkness together, two blind fish. Her eyes are clenched
tight. He is only her imaginary friend, and tomorrow she will nag him,
probably, kick him out of bed, make him babysit the sis while she
goes shopping. He wants to turn the lights on, to make it real, to
make her see him as he is.
He is, of course, a creature of the night. He can see her even
without the lights on, and he wonders if she remembers, if she
cares. But it doesn't matter that he has her outline memorized--
she'll keep her eyes closed. Even in daylight, she never sees him
any way but straight through.
***
Her breath fills the room. She heaves next to him, a small hurricane
in his bed, a tidal wave in his life. When she sits up, sliding her
feet into her shoes, he grasps her hand.
"You know this isn't any good for either of us," he tells her.
Her nails score his wrist as she leaves.
***
He shudders into her, nightmare force, trying to turn her inside out.
He can't believe how angry he is right now, how much he'd like to hurt
her, show her what he is. Two hours ago she was laughably drunk,
slagging him off in front of those demons, throwing insults at him,
making him look like a fool. And now she has the temerity to steal
back into his bed, her pert little ass turned towards him, her soft,
easily-torn skin begging for his touch. And of course he has to do
it, reach over and pull her to him, lips fastening on her breakable
neck.
Because suddenly she isn't making choices anymore, no, she's riding
the current until someone makes the decision for her. This is what
they did to her, brought her back to be weak and lost. She breaks
hearts, uses him like a hobbyhorse to ride and throw away. None of
that is fair, but she isn't fair either, writhing under him like she
really wants him and not just his long cold body.
He pins her wrists to the pillow, centering his weight between her
legs, faster, harder. He knows this has to hurt, but the pleasure
slides around and through them. She moans like a child; against her
will, he can tell.
He sees her dim head thrown back, hair a pale glow, neck stupidly
bared, and for a moment he wants to end it all, send her back where
she belongs, finish tormenting them both. His teeth graze her skin,
almost by accident, then again, harder, scraping at it. He
concentrates on slamming into her. If he doesn't think about
hurting her it can't hurt him. The tiniest trickle of blood slides
onto his lower lip, and the hunger chokes him. It is all he can do
to merely lap at this little life-giving fountain, this delicious
taste of heat and misery and desire.
She whimpers a little, and his licking is stronger than he realized,
nearly a sucking motion. The dual pleasure is more than he can take,
warmth within and without. Three forceful thrusts and he bursts into
her, the burning sensation so intense he finds himself crying out,
moaning against her neck. Thrust and thrust and forget. He releases
her skin and drops down onto her, weak but flushed with his stolen
vitality.
She nuzzles his neck, almost sweetly, and he is about to respond to
this unusual intimacy when he feels her teeth sink into his skin.
Surprised, he tries to jerk away, but her blunt teeth clamp down,
sending burning pain through his shoulder.
"Wha--" he gasps out.
She lets go and flips him onto his back, rolling on top of him. His
limp cock slips out and hangs wetly between his legs, a rush of
fluids sliding between them. She takes his wrist and jerks it roughly
up to his mouth.
"Do it, Spike. Turn me. I know you want to."
Through a stunned haze, he grasps onto some sort of composure.
"Don't--don't be an idiot. You're a Slayer. You don't want this."
"Try me," she growls.
"For fuck's sake, Buffy..." This is not what they're supposed to be
saying. And there should be light.
His mind reeling, he tries to sit up but she tackles him down. Damn
her supernatural strength anyhow.
"You're not listening. I said *turn me*." Her voice catches and he
can feel her strain to hold the tears back. One escapes, and falls
into his open mouth. She tastes like regret.
"I couldn't if I wanted to," he says brusquely. "You're forgetting
the chip."
"Bullshit. You wouldn't be harming me," she says in her fierce little
voice. "Quit lying and do it." She inches up until her neck is hairs
away from his suddenly sharpening fangs. The smell of her blood is
torture.
A moment passes, an evil Spike moment in which he envisions her by
his side for eternity, his undead beauty, his partner in crime, his
muse and savior. It could work.
But she would crumble with the weight of the years, he thinks. She
is a candle flame, a fighting butterfly meant to tear itself wing
from thin steel wing in its battle for life. Her heart beats so fast,
and her breath is so quick, and she is so beautiful in the sunlight.
"Why?" he asks quietly.
She breaks, then.
"Because I--wouldn't have to--care anymore," she chokes out between
sobs. Her burning tears drip down on his smooth chest.
"What?" he whispers, horrified. She is good. She is not like this.
"You don't give a--shit--about anything. I'd just be--nothing. Like you."
If his heart still beat, it would have stopped at this point. His
mouth goes dry, and he feels sick, his recent tiny gorge heavy on
his stomach where she leans her weight.
"That's what you think of me?" he manages. "A nothing?"
She doesn't answer, and she doesn't have to. Her hands clench around
his biceps, nails digging until it hurts, the sound of her weeping
harsh and ugly. There are words in there, somewhere, but he can't
make them out. They are not words for him.
The storm passes, and she heaves two shuddering sighs. For a very,
very quiet moment she lies on his chest. He can feel her pulse throb
against his cool skin. He lifts his hands, and hovers them over her
back for a moment, then drops them. She has taken all his comfort.
She gets up slowly, her sweat-sticky skin peeling away from his. She
sits on the edge of the bed like always, pulling on her trendy
little outfit, like saving the world requires some kind of dress
code. It's not even three, and there are plenty more monsters out
there. She rises to zip up her pants, and he knows she will not
return to his bed again.
They were wrong, then. Pain is her gift, living pain, a knife left
in an unhealing wound. She will never learn this.
Panic surges and she is leaving, leaving, leaving him forever, this
is it, this is over, this is done. He is losing her heat, her false
love, her beautiful passion, her beautiful pain. He can't stand it.
"I might have changed my mind, luv," he hears himself say as he sits
up. "Why don't you come back to bed for a bite?"
In the silence he can almost hear her hiss like the hellcat she is.
"Fuck you, Spike," she spits. "Fuck. You."
"Too late," he says before he can stop himself, cruelty an old habit.
She senses his smirk as it starts and hits it off his face. He reels
back on the bed, clutching his jaw.
"If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you. It's that simple," she
grinds out, leaning over him.
She turns and runs, nearly silent on the stone floor. The door bangs
open, silvered moonlight pouring in, and then shuts on her silhouette.
He knows he will never see her in darkness again.
*********
Thanks, as always, to my long-suffering, infinitely supportive beta
Jintian, who deserves at least half credit on this for luring me from
one fandom into another *and* fixing all my newbie mistakes. Everyone
should be so lucky.
This and more at http://thedoublehelix.org/sophia
by Sophia Jirafe
Classification: Vignette
Rating: Strong R for sexual situations
Spoilers: Through "Life Serial"
Archive: Permission required, *links only*. Please respect this request.
Feedback: skepticgirl@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Characters used belong to Mutant Enemy and various other
corporate entities. Title quote belongs to Liz Phair. No infringement
intended or money being made.
Summary: "No need for Lucifer to fall, if he'd learn to keep his
mouth shut."
*********
He doesn't get up until halfway through the night now, just for her.
Because the first time he tried to turn on the lamp, she squirmed
away and knocked it off with a quick hand, shattering the bulb on
the stone floor. He knows it has to be dark for her, that she can't
sneak down into his dank crypt if there's the slightest possibility
she'll be seen by anyone, friend or foe.
There are certain things she will and will not do. She won't kiss him
on the mouth. She won't kiss him below the waist. She will only lick
and lick and suck his neck, stab his small nipples with her tongue,
run her useless teeth over his hard shoulder. She pulls him on top
of her like a security blanket every time.
If he reaches a hand after her when she wriggles out from under the
sheets, she ignores it. If he tries to speak to her as they fit
together, she holds his lips shut with a finger. If he doesn't move
within a minute or so of finishing, she roughly pushes him away.
He can do almost as he pleases, however. His teeth slip over her
body, changing between dull and sharp, and when he nips her
delicately she makes a strange sound, almost a whimper, almost
a laugh. She wants him to bite her harder sometimes, and only
the memory of pain stops him.
She likes to be pinned down tightly, and she likes to be slammed
into, and she doesn't like to be held afterwards. If he were a
bonehead mortal like Xander, he'd be in heaven.
Silly word that, heaven. So stupid of him to even think it. He tries
not to use the word, but there are so many casual phrases containing
it. Even language is a minefield now, which is why they only talk
when his mouth is full of her.
***
She likes to pretend he doesn't know she's there.
She tiptoes in on her tiny sneaky feet and stands over him, so close
he can smell her, the kills she's made so far, the kills she wants
to make.
She peels off those little scraps she calls clothing and tosses them
into a pile next to the bed, easy access for a quick getaway.
She slithers in with him, barely disturbing the sheets, his own
sly ghost.
She faces the wall, and it's always up to him to make the first
move. Always.
***
He wonders if she has a fucking clue what he thinks about on these
nights. She seems to live inside her own head nowadays. He can hardly
blame her. He doesn't want to think about this either, any of it.
Mostly he doesn't want to think about why she told him. Was it was
because she trusted him above anyone else? Or because she didn't
care enough to hide her darkest secret from him? Either way it hurts.
Hurts to know she trusts him but can fuck him like a stranger, hurts
to know it doesn't matter to her that he lies awake in the day,
trying to imagine what it feels like to lose heaven.
They swim in darkness together, two blind fish. Her eyes are clenched
tight. He is only her imaginary friend, and tomorrow she will nag him,
probably, kick him out of bed, make him babysit the sis while she
goes shopping. He wants to turn the lights on, to make it real, to
make her see him as he is.
He is, of course, a creature of the night. He can see her even
without the lights on, and he wonders if she remembers, if she
cares. But it doesn't matter that he has her outline memorized--
she'll keep her eyes closed. Even in daylight, she never sees him
any way but straight through.
***
Her breath fills the room. She heaves next to him, a small hurricane
in his bed, a tidal wave in his life. When she sits up, sliding her
feet into her shoes, he grasps her hand.
"You know this isn't any good for either of us," he tells her.
Her nails score his wrist as she leaves.
***
He shudders into her, nightmare force, trying to turn her inside out.
He can't believe how angry he is right now, how much he'd like to hurt
her, show her what he is. Two hours ago she was laughably drunk,
slagging him off in front of those demons, throwing insults at him,
making him look like a fool. And now she has the temerity to steal
back into his bed, her pert little ass turned towards him, her soft,
easily-torn skin begging for his touch. And of course he has to do
it, reach over and pull her to him, lips fastening on her breakable
neck.
Because suddenly she isn't making choices anymore, no, she's riding
the current until someone makes the decision for her. This is what
they did to her, brought her back to be weak and lost. She breaks
hearts, uses him like a hobbyhorse to ride and throw away. None of
that is fair, but she isn't fair either, writhing under him like she
really wants him and not just his long cold body.
He pins her wrists to the pillow, centering his weight between her
legs, faster, harder. He knows this has to hurt, but the pleasure
slides around and through them. She moans like a child; against her
will, he can tell.
He sees her dim head thrown back, hair a pale glow, neck stupidly
bared, and for a moment he wants to end it all, send her back where
she belongs, finish tormenting them both. His teeth graze her skin,
almost by accident, then again, harder, scraping at it. He
concentrates on slamming into her. If he doesn't think about
hurting her it can't hurt him. The tiniest trickle of blood slides
onto his lower lip, and the hunger chokes him. It is all he can do
to merely lap at this little life-giving fountain, this delicious
taste of heat and misery and desire.
She whimpers a little, and his licking is stronger than he realized,
nearly a sucking motion. The dual pleasure is more than he can take,
warmth within and without. Three forceful thrusts and he bursts into
her, the burning sensation so intense he finds himself crying out,
moaning against her neck. Thrust and thrust and forget. He releases
her skin and drops down onto her, weak but flushed with his stolen
vitality.
She nuzzles his neck, almost sweetly, and he is about to respond to
this unusual intimacy when he feels her teeth sink into his skin.
Surprised, he tries to jerk away, but her blunt teeth clamp down,
sending burning pain through his shoulder.
"Wha--" he gasps out.
She lets go and flips him onto his back, rolling on top of him. His
limp cock slips out and hangs wetly between his legs, a rush of
fluids sliding between them. She takes his wrist and jerks it roughly
up to his mouth.
"Do it, Spike. Turn me. I know you want to."
Through a stunned haze, he grasps onto some sort of composure.
"Don't--don't be an idiot. You're a Slayer. You don't want this."
"Try me," she growls.
"For fuck's sake, Buffy..." This is not what they're supposed to be
saying. And there should be light.
His mind reeling, he tries to sit up but she tackles him down. Damn
her supernatural strength anyhow.
"You're not listening. I said *turn me*." Her voice catches and he
can feel her strain to hold the tears back. One escapes, and falls
into his open mouth. She tastes like regret.
"I couldn't if I wanted to," he says brusquely. "You're forgetting
the chip."
"Bullshit. You wouldn't be harming me," she says in her fierce little
voice. "Quit lying and do it." She inches up until her neck is hairs
away from his suddenly sharpening fangs. The smell of her blood is
torture.
A moment passes, an evil Spike moment in which he envisions her by
his side for eternity, his undead beauty, his partner in crime, his
muse and savior. It could work.
But she would crumble with the weight of the years, he thinks. She
is a candle flame, a fighting butterfly meant to tear itself wing
from thin steel wing in its battle for life. Her heart beats so fast,
and her breath is so quick, and she is so beautiful in the sunlight.
"Why?" he asks quietly.
She breaks, then.
"Because I--wouldn't have to--care anymore," she chokes out between
sobs. Her burning tears drip down on his smooth chest.
"What?" he whispers, horrified. She is good. She is not like this.
"You don't give a--shit--about anything. I'd just be--nothing. Like you."
If his heart still beat, it would have stopped at this point. His
mouth goes dry, and he feels sick, his recent tiny gorge heavy on
his stomach where she leans her weight.
"That's what you think of me?" he manages. "A nothing?"
She doesn't answer, and she doesn't have to. Her hands clench around
his biceps, nails digging until it hurts, the sound of her weeping
harsh and ugly. There are words in there, somewhere, but he can't
make them out. They are not words for him.
The storm passes, and she heaves two shuddering sighs. For a very,
very quiet moment she lies on his chest. He can feel her pulse throb
against his cool skin. He lifts his hands, and hovers them over her
back for a moment, then drops them. She has taken all his comfort.
She gets up slowly, her sweat-sticky skin peeling away from his. She
sits on the edge of the bed like always, pulling on her trendy
little outfit, like saving the world requires some kind of dress
code. It's not even three, and there are plenty more monsters out
there. She rises to zip up her pants, and he knows she will not
return to his bed again.
They were wrong, then. Pain is her gift, living pain, a knife left
in an unhealing wound. She will never learn this.
Panic surges and she is leaving, leaving, leaving him forever, this
is it, this is over, this is done. He is losing her heat, her false
love, her beautiful passion, her beautiful pain. He can't stand it.
"I might have changed my mind, luv," he hears himself say as he sits
up. "Why don't you come back to bed for a bite?"
In the silence he can almost hear her hiss like the hellcat she is.
"Fuck you, Spike," she spits. "Fuck. You."
"Too late," he says before he can stop himself, cruelty an old habit.
She senses his smirk as it starts and hits it off his face. He reels
back on the bed, clutching his jaw.
"If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you. It's that simple," she
grinds out, leaning over him.
She turns and runs, nearly silent on the stone floor. The door bangs
open, silvered moonlight pouring in, and then shuts on her silhouette.
He knows he will never see her in darkness again.
*********
Thanks, as always, to my long-suffering, infinitely supportive beta
Jintian, who deserves at least half credit on this for luring me from
one fandom into another *and* fixing all my newbie mistakes. Everyone
should be so lucky.
This and more at http://thedoublehelix.org/sophia
