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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.
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