CloserBy Purplefeen
You Get Me Closer to GodI want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to godTwo years later...
"I love this song," Anya squeals as 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails comes on the jukebox at the Bronze. "It makes me horny! Xander, let's dance," she orders, standing and pulling her boyfriend onto the dance floor with her.
"Me, too," Willow sighs and leans back into Spike. It's pretty easy, since she's sitting on his lap.
"Wanna dance, luv?" he asks and at her happy nod, he helps her stand and then leads her to the dance floor and takes her into his arms.
"Don't know why this song would make someone wanna shag," he says as he leads her around the floor. Then he smiles, "Well, everything makes me want to shag, 'specially when you're around."
"Spike, listen to the words," Willow says, not believing even he could be so dense. "I wanna fuck you like an animal," she whispers, still too bashful to swear in public.
"'S not about sex at all, Pet," he tells her.
"Whatever," she says, overlooking his obviously silly statement. He is a guy after all, and they're notoriously insensitive about these things. She just holds him tighter and enjoys the feel of him pressed so closely against her.
He shakes his head at her - over her head, where she can't see him.
Chits! Don't look past the ends of their noses, they don't.
Usually he'd be more than happy to debate the point with her; one of the things he loves about her is that she's not afraid to say what she thinks, even if she disagrees with him. He smiles inwardly - especially if she disagrees with him. There's that spirit that he saw the first day in his crypt. Both of them, so passionate about everything. Like two flints constantly striking - always making a spark.
~~~~~
He hears the shower running. He goes to the front door, locks it. Puts out all the lights. He likes their apartment, likes the comfort it provides. He'd like it even better if he'd been able to kill the residents and appropriate it from their corpses, but you can't have everything. Instead, he kills demons, sells their internals to the highest bidder, gives Anya her share and the rest of the money to Willow and pretends. Pretends this isn't all legal and above-board because that's just no fun.
He walks up the stairs and sees Willow on their bed, combing through her wet hair.
He pulls his customary black tee shirt over his head, sits on his side of the bed and pulls off his boots. He moves so that he's sitting up against the headboard, just watching her. Watching her move, watching the candlelight shine in her hair, watching her turn toward him and smile in a way that makes him remember the sun.
"Remember I told you that night," he doesn't have to specify what night he means, they talk about "that night" all the time. The night they talked, the night they told each other all of their secrets, the nights they both confessed they were lost and confused and sometimes felt like they'd never find their way. The night he had to figure out who he really was inside because she wanted to know.
"…that I was a poet," he continues.
"Mmm hmm," she says, turning toward him.
"I had lots of favorites back then. Too old school for you to appreciate of course," he grins wickedly when she looks offended. "Just kiddin', Red." She's finished combing through her hair and she moves up the bed to sit facing him. "Still, I like the new poems, too," he tells her. "Can I tell you one I like?"
Her face glows; every new facet about him excites her. She enthusiastically nods, not wanting to say anything and break this strange mood he seems to be in.
He pulls her down next to him and kisses her mouth gently before laying her down on the bed. He stands and walks over to the bathroom door and switches off the light. Now only the light from the two candles illuminate the room. Everything seems warm and soft when bathed in the candlelight - even him.
He looks down on her, at her glowing skin and shining hair; at her expressive eyes that look at him like no one has ever looked at him before. Like he's worth something, like he's real, like he's the reason she's alive.
He lies back on his side of the bed, facing her. He leans over her body and pulls open her nightstand drawer. She smiles when he shows her what he took. A cloisonné case that he bought her a few months ago. It holds a straight razor that he keeps perfectly sharp. He hands it to her and she waits for him to show her where.
He smiles and points to her chest, right above her left breast. She's gotten good at this, so much better than the idiotic attempt to give something to his demon all that time ago. She pulls the razor against her skin, not cutting deeply, this is more of a ritual than a sacrifice. It's not food, its passion. It's an act of faith and of love.
His tongue sneaks out and licks up the stripe of blood that appears, he can't help groaning low down in his throat. It's not the blood - well, it is the blood - but its more that she willingly gives herself to him this way.
They've discovered that he can bite her, but only during sex, only when she's in the throws of an intense orgasm; luckily, it seems all her orgasms are intense these days. Any bite other than that, any attempt to taste her outside of sex, still triggers his chip. And so, the razor. Because she wants to. Because she needs to. Because she loves a demon and will give that demon anything he could ever desire with an open heart. (She makes him listen to Norah Jones, so it comes out about even.)
He takes the razor from her and replaces it in the box.
He goes inside of himself and pulls William the poet out of the closet. Not so much a closet any more. More of a… waiting room. All the pieces of him ready and waiting, knowing that they will be accepted.
His hand travels up her leg to her stomach and then a lone finger traces the cut she just made as he begins in the smooth, cultured voice of the poet he once was. "You let me… violate you."
He holds up her wrist, which still has a little bruising from the handcuffs they played with last night. "You let me desecrate you."
His hand takes hers and he waves them together in a smooth arc through the air, saying a line quietly in Latin as he does. As always, when they do this together, a bright purple swirl like a firecracker lights up the room; he's so much a part of her now that some of her magick is inside of him. "You let me penetrate you."
His hand cups her sweet face, "You let me complicate you."
He lies down on the bed and pulls her onto his chest.
"Help me," he says, reciting the words that have come to mean so much to him since he met her, "I broke apart my insides." He takes her hand and brings it up to his mouth, kissing her fingertips. "Help me," he continues softly, "I've got no soul to sell." She smiles against his skin and he feels it and her capacity to love a soulless demon thrills him and touches him - and scares him.
"Help me," he says when the lump leaves his throat; sometimes her trust is too overwhelming. "The only thing that works for me; help me get away from myself."
His mind travels back to his lonely existence in his crypt, before her smile came into his life. The next words come out stern and sober, and oh so true. "You can have my isolation; you can have the hate that it brings. You can have my absence of faith," he lifts her face up to look him in the eyes, "You can have my everything."
He moves them again, laying her back on her pillow and stretching her body out for his gaze.
"Help me tear down my reason," he says, his eyes traveling her body. His fingers trace the path his eyes have just forged as he says, "Help me, it's your sex I can smell." His hands go back up, fingers caressing her jaw and her ear. "Help me, you make me perfect," he says and it sounds so sad when he says it. She nods at him, letting him know that he is perfect but he shakes his head back, letting her know the truth, even if, thank those deities again, she doesn't see it.
"Help me become somebody else," he pleads, once again alluding to "that night" when he was still so lost.
He lays down beside her and puts an arm across her stomach, looks deep inside her eyes, he wants her to understand this next part the way it was meant to be, not the way its been corrupted. That he loves her so desperately that he'll do anything to be near her, to be closer to her, to physically demonstrate the intensity if the passion he feels for her.
"I want to fuck you," he says reverently, then with an intensity that echoes that reverence he continues, "like…" he pauses, as if searching for the perfect word, "an animal."
With a sweetness that she never knew existed within him, he says, "I want to feel you - from the inside." The emotions are so raw in him that he can't hold them in any longer. His voice cracks and he has to swallow a lump in his throat but he wants her to know how desperately he loves her.
"My whole existence is flawed," he says and its an admission, one the Big Bad he once was would never have admitted to.
He tries to conjure up feelings from his human existence, the ones he had when he was in the chapel of his church and he was so sure someone was listening, that someone heard him and cared what he had to say. The feelings that made him feel that no matter how plain his outward life was, someone out there knew what he was inside; knew the passion that he worked so hard to hold inside because it simply wasn't proper for a gentleman to feel those things, to want those things. When he found poetry, when he found a voice to free some of the inner conflict, he'd gone to church. He'd sat in its hallowed cavern and thanked his god for giving this gift to him. He wasn't alone; he didn't have to suffer silently; someone, some thing, was out there and understood.
And he now held that someone in his arms.
"You get me closer to god," he says with a quiet reverence that makes her feel loved and worshipped.
He stops, and breathes, hoping that he did the poem justice. Hoping that he's shown her what the song is really about, not what a few shallow creatures have distorted it to be.
She turns to him and without a word between them, she makes love to him. Showing him in her own way that she feels the same way about him. That she knows what he is, she understands what he was and will help him become however he wants to be.
When her body finally gives out and she falls into a warm, contented sleep, Spike rises and finds his cigarettes.
He sits in the chair, smoking, watching her sleep.
He takes in her long, shining hair; glowing like firelight in the muted coming rays of dawn.
He takes in her soft, pale skin, now bruised and marked. He can see imprints of his fingers on her arm. He knows there are others on her hips, back and ankles, even though he can't see those. They aren't marks of pain, they're marks of passion.
He smiles. She now bears his mark. Two perfect holes, bruised and scabbing over at the moment no doubt, but in a few days, that would be gone, replaced with scar tissue that would never fade, never wash away. She is his.
"You bring me closer to God."
You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate youHelp me, I broke apart my insides
Help me, I've got no soul to sell
Help me, The only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myselfI want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to GodYou can have my isolation
You can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith
You can have my everythingHelp me, Tear down my reason
Help me, It's your sex I can smell
Help me, You make me perfect
Help me become somebody elseI want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God
~Fin~