Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

 

Burning Lucifers


by Spyke Raven


Title: Lucifers
Author: Spyke Raven. Feedback please to spyke_raven@yahoo.com

Distribution: Eterniata, Improv archives, List Archives, Kita if she wants it, anyone else tell me so I can kiss you!

Rating: NC-21.

Warning: Graphic m/m sexual situations, disturbing ideas, violence of a particular sort.

Improv: flame -- boot -- ache -- tender

Disclaimer: Angel and Penn belong to Joss Whedon's canonical universe. Every one else is mine own.

Spoilers: Somnambulist.

Summary: Memory and dreams.

Notes: Lucifer - 1 -- used as a name of the devil. 2 - not capitalized : a friction match having as active substances antimony sulfide and potassium chlorate

***

Strike a match. Let it flame.

Watch it burn, ever so slowly.

Let it burn almost to the tips of your fingers.

Blow.

**

Run through a dozen matches waiting for him to return. He's late. He's been delayed. He's never coming back.

Then he walks in while you're moodily striking what you promise yourself will be the final flame. You look up startled, unable to stop yourself from emitting a glad cry.

"Angelus!"

"Penn," he nods to you, shedding his coat - his lush, thick, luxurious coat of super-fine, a sinful indulgence -

You check yourself, remembering. You are beyond sin.

You rise to help him, the motion dislodging a cascade of splinters and ashes from your lap. He smirks, arms halfway through the sleeves.

"Been enjoying yourself, I see."

You shrug as you divest him of the garment. "They're fascinating new toys." Look up to meet his gaze, and barely suppress a shudder as he lightly runs his tongue over his lips.

"Aren't they, though?"

Your hands tremble as you hang the coat up carefully. You can feel his eyes upon you, stalking every movement.

You try not to give into it, but willy-nilly your movements become slower, more sensual. Turning, you find that he is immediately behind you, twisted smile on his lips, hands reaching out.

"Angelus," you try, but with one smooth motion he shoves you into a waiting armchair. You would have risen, except he places one booted foot between your legs and stands there, watching your reaction.

You swallow.

His breeches are cut tight, in a fashion that no gentleman of your day would have espoused - but your day was a century ago, and as he reminds you, those of the superior caste need follow no fashion but their own. Deciding for once to pay attention to his lessons, you put out a trembling hand and touch the carefully defined muscle of his calf, feeling the softness of his riding boots and attempting not to look upwards.

He leans forward and prods you in the chest.

"Undo me," he commands softly and you close your eyes for a shattering instant, wishing that indeed you could.

Buttons at least are not beyond your comprehension, and if your fingers fumble a bit while encountering the intricacies of the higher fastenings, why, today Angelus is patient, content to lean on one foot, chin braced on his hand, eyes following your every move.

"All done," you say, gently lifting the boot off his foot and patting his stocking-ed leg cheerily. His eyes crinkle in amusement as he switches legs, placing his right foot closer than is entirely comfortable to your inner thigh.

You have to lean forward slightly this time, and you concentrate on not being affected by the sensation of silken- smooth leather against your skin. Unfortunately, as your hands move upwards in an inevitable caress against his leg, your body betrays itself. You have to bite the inside of your mouth to keep from bolting.

He cups your chin in one hand and tugs you upward to look at him. Hands frozen on the half-off boot, you comply.

His face is intensely close, eyes blazing into yours, lips curving into the sweetest of smiles as he contemplates your confusion.

"Penn?" he invites mischievously and you quickly look away.

"Penn," his tone is chiding and his fingers strong on your chin. He lowers his foot to the ground so he is standing braced on the floor, the invitingly snug join of his breeches about level with your face. "Penn, my dear boy."

When he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, you give in fatalistically. Why should today be any different?

Hands firmer now that you understand your place in the scheme of things, you reach out to undo the fastenings of his breeches. He sways a little to allow you room to work, his fingers lightly stroking your cheeks, thumb occasionally tracing the dry curve of your mouth.

"Penn, Penn," his voice is warmer, pleased, as you reach in and draw out his cock, already semi-hard.

His skin is warm, flushed with the blood of a new kill. You sigh and press your cheek to the sensitive flesh of his groin, rubbing a little, inhaling his tangy scent and trying not to remember times when you would hunt together. Working your jaw to collect some saliva, you open your mouth and take him in a little, just the head, just enough so he notices you.

He freezes for a second, then goes back to rhythmically patting your hair.

"Ah, boy," he sighs and you try not to shudder in revulsion, but to pay attention to the task at hand. Angelus is nothing like the man who first taught you this... he understands and appreciates you in ways the old man never could.

And he is kissing the top of your head now, playing with your hair, delicately rubbing your earlobe in those light, carefree touches that he knows you revel in. Closing your eyes in bliss, you open wider and take him in as far as you are able.

"Deeper," he suggests, and you try, but can't. To make up for it, you suck gently; letting part of him slip out so you can run your tongue over the whorls of skin and test every pocket of sensation hidden in his beautiful, long cock.

Because he is beautiful. He is. And you love to taste him.

You do. You do.

You brace your hands on his hips, holding him in position. He's rocking now, in slow gentle motions, guiding you patiently through the steps of pleasure. You accept it, accept him and moan in disappointment when he slides out of your mouth, a moan cut short as he pulls you up for a long, deep kiss.

"Lie down," he tells you, between soft sucks and gasps, "here... yes."

"Yes..." you whisper and then you wake up.

**

You wake to dingy darkness, made no less putrid by the keenness of your vampire sight. The paint on the walls is peeling and cracked, the floor is filthy and stinks of urine.

You arise and go to the tiny sink, letting the water run brown, then muddy, then a thin yellow. It is the best you can hope for. You splash your face.

You walk back to the bed and the corpse of your latest victim; a thin brown man with starving cheeks and hollow eyes. He won't rise from the dead. You took the precaution of breaking his neck.

You press a forgiving kiss to the cold forehead and feel inside your pocket for a knife.

You always take a lock of their hair for a keepsake, and burn it at home. Home is for sanctification, your home, with the clean walls and pristine floor, and the kindly old landlady who keeps cats and says you remind her of her grandson.

You smile at the thought of home, and your smile only widens later, when you burn the hair along with camphor and incense arranged carefully in a little brass bowl.

The smoke rises and wafts over the pencil sketches and line drawings that mark a shrine on your walls.

You hope it is worthy. You hope he would have been proud.

Touching the rude outline of his lips for benediction, you turn and begin to choose your attire for the evening.

**

You are trawling the better class of club for a particular type of man. The requirements are etched into your memory, allowing you to quickly evaluate several candidates. Too tall, too short, hair the wrong colour, hair too long, too young - ah...

Perfect.

You're sitting in a booth near the bar, away from the mayhem of the dance floor. You're nursing one drink and there are no empty glasses on the table.

You look respectable and young, in neat sober clothes - jeans, button-down shirt, and spectacles perched on the edge of your nose. It makes you irresistible to a certain type of man, the kind who likes to ruffle the hair of his young lovers in public.

You have a name for this kind of man and it makes your lips twist in a sneer.

Your catch for the evening walks up to you, not overwhelming you with his presence, but giving you plenty of warning that he is approaching.

"Hi," he says, standing at the side of your booth. "This seat taken?"

It isn't, of course, and he sits down easily, smile already in place. You smile back and go through your routine.

Within thirty minutes he's offering to cook you dinner, and an hour later, at his place, his hands are fisting in your hair, mouth rough on yours, voice low and husky, whispering filthy words and moaning about what he's going to do to you.

You never give them the satisfaction of more than a kiss. Sometimes even less. Depends on your mood.

Today you decide to end it fast, and snap his neck as his hand is travelling down to unzip your jeans.

The instant of shock in his eyes is enough to warm the satisfied ache in your heart, the one that never really goes away, no matter how many times you see it. But for today, it's enough to know that this one won't be trawling any longer.

You take his money, and a couple of shirts. He has a nice wardrobe - lives alone, spends well on himself. After some consideration, you take a bottle or two of his wine. He did invite you to dinner, after all.

Back at home in your nice little flat, you place a lock of hair in the offering bowl and strike a match. Let it flame.

When the flame has almost reached the tips of your fingers, you drop it into the bowl and stand back, watching.

The sacrifice ignites and you smile as it blazes.

You sit back and relax into the hypnotic glow.

Choose a favourite fantas - memory and let it lull you to sleep.

**

His hands are always tender on you, gentle as they soothe you, brushing the pain away.

Better yet - there is no pain. He uses ambergris, or scented oils to ease your passage and prepare you carefully. He kisses you on the shoulder and whispers affectionately in your ear, reminding you how precious you are to him, just how much this means to him.

You've heard the words in raspy groans and harsh panting - they are taken now and purified through the heat of his passion and the strength of him. His skin may be cold, but in the dream it is fire-warm, and hot against yours, hot and slick and tender, rousing you, rousing him, marking the two of you as one.

He is proud of you for who you are, pleased at your willingness to surrender to him. But he is a gracious master, else you would never have given in.

You fell in love with him the day he taught your family to die, ironic crosses dug into their skin and their blood resonating in you as payment for a thousand slights.

The day he laughed as you took your father - in blood and anger, and you hope, gut-wrenching agony. Stood and laughed with you, surely feeling your release as your progenitor's entrails spilled out into your hands and you felt yourself fly free even as he died.

You fell in love with a demon who gave you far more than God could.

When you awake from the dream, you are hungry again.

**

You hunt. You strike. You walk the streets for him.

Sometimes you find men who think they can take his place, that they can be to you what he would have been, had he lived.

You kill the pretenders but allow them a kiss for his sake.

He is the only one who would have been worthy. So you strike matches for him, burning lucifers in memory, vowing to keep him alive in your heart. He's the only one who ever knew you, ever understood what you were made of.

And you know he would have loved you, given time. But you didn't have time. Not enough. Not enough to show him how much he was loved.

You knew that only death could have prevented him from coming to you. When you realised that, when you were sure he was dead, you took vengeance on a convent, on a monastery, on a church, smearing filth and blood at their doors, terrorising the congregations and laughing in agony while your victims writhed.

You knew he would have wanted you to carry on in his footsteps. That he was proud of you and that he would have acknowledged you to his family, his sire, his other children.

You know he was your true father; that he wouldn't have called you a bastard, or otherwise used you as your progenitor did.

You know he cared for you. That he taught you all he could and laughed in joy as you took his lessons to heart.

You know that you loved him. You sacrifice lucifers in his memory, and know that he knows you're doing your best to make him proud.

And every night before sleeping, you light a match and watch it burn, careful not to let the flame touch your fingers.

~ End.

***

The friction matches so named only came into vogue around the early 1800s. I assume they would have been novel toys.

I also assume Penn didn't know where Angel was, after he failed to meet him in Italy.