Title: Demons Are Forever
Author: Sto. Honest guv.
Fandom: Angel
Genre: Mild BDSM
Narration: POV
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series. Sadly, they don’t own me either.
Listened to while writing this fic:
- Good as Gold (Stupid as Mud) by the Beautiful South
- Love Cats by the Cure
- Black Leather by the Sex Pistols
- My Girl by Madness
A/n and word count: This is the version I’m entering for the challenge and it has been horribly battered to drop to a painful 4998 words. Because I hate waste, when challenge threads are unlocked for feedback I will post the 7000 word original in the AtS forum. If you like this, it’s worth checking out the original because the beginning’s completely different and it has a lot more character goodness.
DEMONS ARE FOREVER
The girl learns so fast. To think that not so long ago she hadn’t even… Oi! What the…! What’s going off, here? Ok… Kudos. You must be a little genius. You’ve acquired the latest in communication technology. Telepathy. Oh, please! Think I don’t know? You’re in my head, you’re reading my mind, you wanker! Or you’re in the future and some polling company’s invented the thought-to-text machine. You’re a very skilled computer geek who wants to show off to all his geeky friends so you’re hacking brains instead. Either that or your skin tone is pea-green and your homeland Pylea and… and you have a bloody good grasp of your powers because you’re not even supposed to access my thoughts, come to think of it. Something to do with thoughts being similar to reflection or something. Plus, I’m not even singing! Yet… Wouldn’t take much, though. If she asks nicely. Anyway, whoever you are, whatever you are, whenever you are… well done, mate. Now piss off.
No? Still here? Well there’s not much I can do about that, is there? Even if I designed a cunning plan to make you scram, well, you’d know what I was doing straight away, wouldn’t you? So, craftiness is out. Can’t win here, can I? Oh well. Winning is so overrated. Trust me. So, all I can do, now, is say, “Welcome to my mind.” “Hope you enjoy the show.” Whatever.
So I s’pose you’ve done your research? Otherwise, lemme tell you, it’s just not professional. But you know your host inside out? Right? Spike, the vampire-with-a-soul. Helps the helpless. Key-member of the occult-smacking organisation “Spike Investigations”? Oh, right! “Angel Investigations”, whatever! Smarty pants! Yeah? Think you know me? Then you won’t be shocked if I tell you… I’m cursed? Oh, you will? Maybe you don’t know me all that well… Ah, shame you can’t hear chuckles here. Or… Shit, maybe you can! Maybe you can feel my vocal cords vibrate. So if you can feel me laugh, that means you can feel all the other things that I’m feeling and… Bloody hell. You’re in for a good time, you are. Just as long as your stomach is safely attached where it should be. You know. ’Cause it could end up in your throat. Where was I?
Oh yeah: me. But you should’ve phoned! I’d have put a coupla bevvies in the fridge. Oh well. It’s a date. Next time you invade my innermost thoughts I’ll buy you a pint. I’m afraid this isn’t a good time… I’m kind of in the middle of something. Well, I suppose we can still have a natter…
So what can I tell you? I’m in love. Aw, got your attention now, have I? So predictable. You wanna know her name, an’ all? Such a poofter, you are. Her name’s Bu… Bu… Go on, you can guess. It’s Bu…………………gger off, I’m not tellin’ you.
Shut it. There’s a bit of background info you need to know first. We don’t wanna be skipping episodes, now, do we?
About two and a half years ago, the world ended. Again. Demons, horns and mucus everywhere. A full-on sea of evil. But, as you very well know, ’cause you’re a pro, I’d been through two almost apocalypses before so, you know, been there, died that. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I ended it. I ended the end and saved us all.
That’s right. Me an’ me mates all made it. Unharmed. Well, ish. The human geezer, Gunn… He came out of it with exactly zero stomach. It was ripped right out in the fight. He almost kicked it, I tell you, but when it was over, Angel had this brilliant − if wacko − idea to transplant him with a dead Mok’tagar demon’s stomach, ’cause it was still in human form. And god, was that weird! It right near freaked me out, it did! Because, well, he normally never has brilliant ideas… So now, Charlie boy’s good as new. Outside the diet, that is. Thing is, Mok’tagars are scalivores. And when with a Roman stomach… But we figured if he got enough soft, raw scales, he should be right as rain. So we all keep goldfish in about every room of the office because Gunn eats over twelve a day. And Angel reckons it “soothes” clients when they come in to ask for our help and they’re all stressed out. I’ve even got one right here on my TV set. Go on, Wanda, say hello to the intruder. Who’s gonna go on ol’ G’s plate tomorrow night? Who? Anyway, just to tell you, a few minor dietary alterations aside, we all got away fine, with an even badder desire to kick evil’s arse. Call it vengeance. The way we’ve been moving for eighteen months, even apocalypses think twice before messing with us. You should see it, man.
But I digress. The point is, during that big fight, my life changed. And, seeing as I haven’t got much of a biological life, obviously, I’m talking about my love-life.
There was this particular moment, it’s so vivid I’m getting shivers down my spine just thinking about it. Feel that? The tingling? That’s me remembering. I was lying flat on my back, with a massive cloven hoof squishing my neck. Turns out the bastard demon − I don’t know what it was − was attempting a sort of bare-hand, or, well, bare-foot, decapitation. And I’m lying there, I’ve got the sharp end of the damn hoof already halfway through my neck and I’m thinking, “That’s it. I’ll never get to know if Sheridan and Luis eloped from Harmony to get off with each other.” Then this tornado, this, like, tsunami, appears from nowhere, deals this beast one single punch, and she smashes his face to pieces. Her fist literally went through the guy’s head. Then she looks at me and she goes, “On your feet, vampire.” Like, through. Like the horned arsehole slipped his head around her fist or someth-- like, yeah, like she got a new bracelet, and that happens to be a dead demon’s head. You know, as you do.
I mean, I knew her. She’d been “staying” with us for a few weeks and stuff. And I’d been “studying” her. You know, nothing fancy, analysing the extent of her powers by getting thrashed by her − under controlled conditions. So I knew she kicked ass. She’d kicked mine often enough. But I never imagined she could be that powerful. That wild and… ungovernable. And that devoted all at once. I mean, even when she almost made time explode, we just thought, “Ok, she’s a demon, she’s a threat, she has a weapon. She is a weapon.” We assumed, as an ex-ruler, her motivation was power. Even I. I never suspected her fuel was passion. But I know passion when I see it. So, question. Do you know what your first thought is when you’ve just been given a second lease on life by such a beautiful monster of a woman? Have a guess. “I’m not dead! I’m not dead!”? “Thank you for saving my life!”? “Glad I didn’t just dust my way to Hell.”? Nope, none of the above. In my case it was: “I am making it through this fight. Because after this, sure as eggs is bloody oval gooey yolky things, I’m havin’ a taste of hot monster sex.”
And I did. Make it. And I… drum roll… did. Have the hot sex. Still not quite sure which of the two was more of a miracle. Ok, maybe an army of vampire slayers showing up unannounced with an endless stash of mystical weapons and butchering a zillion odd demons does have a certain miracle quality. But making friends with, seducing, and getting in the pants of the great Illyria’s a very close second.
All right! If you must insist, there is a very slight possibility that I didn’t quite end the end by myself. Hey. Don’t piss me about over a technicality. I’ve got other things to worry about right now, you have no idea. But you’re gonna get an idea. And when you do, I’m pretty damn well curious whether you’re gonna have the guts to stay.
Do you know what date it is? No? What, mind-travel affect time-notion? Who the bloody hell are you, Sam Beckett? Give you a clue. If you were to look under this bed, you would find a huge, massive, bright red, giant heart-shaped box of chocolates. And if you stretched your nosiness even further and had a peek in my en-suite, you’d see the sink is half-full with water and in it is a big bouquet of wild flowers, freshly picked from just before sunrise, except I got a bit carried away and kept on picking till well into sunrise − dopey prick − and I got me back a wee bit roasted. Forget-me-nots and bluebells, ’cause she likes the colour. So, have you got it yet or are you dim? Yeah! Woohoo! We have a winner! It’s Valentine’s bloody day!
Except, it’s not, is it? Day, I mean. It’s about 11 at night, innit? So, a bright spark like you must be wondering, “How come the chocolates and flowers and various compulsory offerings of worship to the goddess Relationship haven’t yet been handed over?” Very simple explanation. I’m a prat.
And now you’re thinking, “Aw, bless. Poor sod went to all that trouble to get prezzies then he forgot.” I didn’t forget, you divvy! I just told you, I got scorched in the process, I think the unbearable burn-pain would have reminded me about the flowers at least a dozen times today whenever I leaned my back against something. Pay attention, will you? No, what it is, is… Ok, um, this is a tad embarrassing. Oh what the hell, we’re both adults, right? And you’re gonna find out sooner or later if you go on reading my mind. So here we go.
What it is, is me and Lyri, we’re a bit out of the norm. Yes: sexwise, you nitwit. Obviously, sexwise. Or… anythingwise. I mean, she’s not exactly your common and garden person, is she? Not quite demon, not quite human. Yet entirely woman. You figure that one out. But what I’m trying to say is… Ok, before her, I’d never had sex.
I mean, sure enough, Dru was good. Me and Dru, we were soul-mates, no two ways about it. Mates, definitely. It’s the soul we were both widely lacking in. And yeah, it was good. But it was… Yeah, exactly that, good. That’s the thing. It was goodness. Spice, and thrill. Gluttony. Call it what you will. Pleasure.
And with Buffy it was pain. I’m strictly on about the sex here. Don’t get me wrong, that was amazing. But there was always an element of… masochism in there. I mean, you try sleeping with someone that you love more than anything, but that you know will never be able to love you back the same. Well, newsflash. It doesn’t just mess with your head. It affects the nookie as well. I’d be there, making passionate love to her, and I would see this gleam in her eye. Like she loved the moment and hated loving it. It always felt like, on some level, she condemned me for what I was. Or, worse still, who I wasn’t. Like her affection was some sort of underlying, unspoken punishment. Well, call me old-fashioned. But I like my punishments spoken.
With Lyri it’s just… magical. I mean, even plain sex is just never plain. Like her first time.
Back where she’s from, she’d never had to have sex. She was this omnipotent deity that didn’t even need reproduction, never mind pleasure. She didn’t need suitors, didn’t need love, didn’t need tenderness. She was all that if she decided to. She was love. She could just lock herself up in her iodine tower, stop time for a few hours and be like, “Ok, today, I’m an orgasm.” Not that she did very often, I don’t think. But she completely had the power to do that. And that defeats the purpose of sex a bit. Of any kind of piss-arse Valentine’s day ever.
Right, I’m on a tight schedule, here. So one day, if you’re good, I’ll tell you the whole story of her first time. Right now, it’s a different story that comes to mind. The story of her first time. The other one.
We’d been going out for a few months. In secret. Now, that wasn’t my idea, I was pretty against the whole “secret” crap, it conjured up a kind of nasty I-am-ashamed-of-you-you-filthy-vampire déjà vu. But she insisted that was purely for professional reasons. She’d read somewhere that office romance is tricky and she was adamant that the “boss” shouldn’t find out. So I went along with it for a while. But Angel’s not stupid. Well, some of the time, very occasionally, he’s not. And he sussed us out. So he calls me into his poncy office and he doesn’t say much, he just goes, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
To which I replied, “Yeah, a drop-dead gorgeous almighty extinct demon. You?” He wasn’t amused. Anyway, I knew he knew.
That night, me and Lyri were getting… er… frisky, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. It was almost like she was both hyper and blasé. She’d, like, kiss my shoulder then she’d close her eyes and she’d have a very tiny little sigh. It could have been excitement. But I took it as frustration. So, I stop kissing her belly, I look her in the eye, and, I don’t know why, completely out of the blue, I’m like, “I’m gonna tell Angel. About us. I’m telling him tomorrow.”
She didn’t reply straight away, she just took it in, like. Then she asked, in this really inquisitive voice, “Why?”
I lay down on my back next to her and, staring at the ceiling, I just said, “Because you don’t tell me what to do! I wanna tell people about my girlfriend, I’m gonna tell people about my girlfriend. You’re not my… monarch. I’m not your slave.”
She lay up on her side to face me and she said, very seriously, “I don’t wish the leader to be informed.”
I tried not to show how much fun I was having in this little wind-up, but I know I was smirking as I said, “Well, tough! What you gonna do about it?” She saw the grin so I think she realised something was up. So I went for it. “What you gonna do? Tie me up so I can’t go spill it? Huh? Chain me to the bed and show me who’s boss? Teach me to do as I’m told? Discipline me till I learn obedience?” She had a hearty head-tilt.
I tried that stunt with Harmony, once. You know, the bint I bonked for a coupla years. On an’ off. But her reaction was so pathetic I swore I’d never do it again. Guess I’m not that good at keeping my word. But my demon bird was so hot and powerful and sexy, and I was so fully, so truthfully hers… I may as well be hers for pretend. And I was sure she had potential. Come on, what’s with all the leather? That’s gotta be a statement. Which doesn’t say “my Harley’s parked out front”.
Before I knew where I was, I was flipped over on my stomach, with my left arm bent right up my back, which made my head sink into the pillow.
My reflex was to struggle. But the more I wiggled the more she bent my arm and pressed it hard against my back and I realised I was completely pinned to the bed. I mean, you know, if she’d been human, or even vampire, I’d have probably managed to shake her off. I’m not exactly hopeless as hopeless weaklings go. So my next reflex was to look at her face. But my neck didn’t bend that way. So I just waited like a twat with my face in the pillow and my arm as still as possible to limit the damage. She was eventually gonna let go, wasn’t she?
Then I felt this… tickling down my back that immediately turned into a sharp sting. Then a raw pain. And then I started wiggin’ out. Because she was digging a groove in my flesh with a fingernail, to the blood, and it hurt, and I couldn’t see her face. I couldn’t tell if she’d twigged it was a game. I hadn’t had time to make it clear that I was messing about, and Illyria, she’s got her own logic sometimes. So my heart wasn’t beating any faster for… mechanical reasons, but my brain was racing at ninety mph. If I’d really pissed her off, there was a very real chance that I’d end up really, really hurt or really, really powdery. There was no way she knew that some humans and/or demon humanoids play sex games that involve a certain degree of pain for enjoyment. To such a young, ingenuous alien, so unfamiliar with the ways of her adopted species, that’s just inconceivable, I reckon. And we’d never talked about it… unless you count that one time when, right in front of a haunted client, she’d asked me who Mistress Spanksalot was. God knows…
She ran another nail-line down my back, parallel to the first one and to my spine. Although I was wincing with pain, I still managed to mutter something like, “Listen, pet, steady on…” But I felt another nail sink into my skin, drawing another line, across the other two, this time. And I freaked even more because she wasn’t stopping which meant she probably saw this as a sorta battle instead of a game, and I was going to get badly hurt. And not for fun.
Then I felt something on my nape. Soft and wet. Phew. Sweet, sweet relief, Jesus! She’d just kissed me. She knew. She was playing along.
She whispered in my ear, “I don’t care for the way you speak to me. Someone forgot the ooze of yester years. Someone was a bad little vampire. Do you know what happens to bad vampires who challenge their sovereign?”
By that point I’d realised I was pretty safe, and I was getting rather stonkingly turned on. I hazarded a guess: “They get punished?”
She just replied, “Unsparingly,” and went back to her red lines on my back. She drew another one, parallel to the second one going across the other two. It was really tender because she did it dead slow and deep. You can’t begin to imagine how arousing that was for me. There was the whole thing of being totally subdued by the woman I love. Major turn-on. Then there was the pain. Not too harsh, not too mild, enough to feel a buzz, too much not to want it to stop, and enough to remember it afterwards. Just right. Finally, I’m sure, there was some sort of subconscious vampire collective memory thingy, whereby a fingernail drawing blood equals siring foreplay equals ultimate turn-on. She was a natural.
She carried on gashing my back. I stopped focusing on the pain for a minute because it felt like she wasn’t incising at random, it kind of felt like a pattern, like she was writing something. An X, I definitely felt an X. Then a circle, an O. Then another O, the other side of the X. Oxo? Hey, maybe she was hungry, she fancied a beef drink, who am I to mock oddball fantasies? Another X, right under the first one. Bloody hell! She was playing noughts and crosses! She was playing bloody noughts and crosses on my bloody back using her bloody fingernails as a pen and my bloody blood as ink, the bloody tyrant!
She lost to herself and rolled me over. She grabbed my wrists in each hand and pinned them to the sheet, either side of my head. She cast her piercing blue eyes into mine and promised, “There will be more.” Then followed a long, torrid, best-sex-in-at-least-ten-planes-of-existence session. And guess who was on top.
That’s when I understood. What are the odds that the woman in my bed would turn out to be wired the same way as me? It’s not a fluke. It’s me. I go for freaks, eternally, looking for the one that will be freakish enough to match my own freakishness. That’s why you’ll always see me with a vampire, or a slayer, or an ex-demon. Or an infectious entity. That’s why you’ll never see me with an ordinary human chick. That’s my gypsy curse. Because monsters are it.
It’s not always like that. You know, that format. Sometimes, I like to oblige. Ooh, big stuff, I’m exposed. You’re in the head of a true-blue switcher. It’s not so much how we play the game. It’s more why. See, we’re both, due to our nature, extremely tolerant of pain. Bit too much if you ask me. That makes pain fun, and slightly more painful pain interesting. And we both, due to our personalities, bore very easy. Oh please! I’ve been inwardly conversing with my imaginary geeky demonic mind-reader from the future for the past two hours, what does that tell you?
Trouble is, Illyria knows I can’t stand being bored. And she uses it. Know what she did once? I’d… I don’t know what I’d done. Something she didn’t approve of, whatever it was. Anyway, she bursts into my room, closes the door and tells me that she has a punishment for me ’cause I’ve been naughty. God, I love that woman. Sorry. Anyway, I start creeping a bit, just for the hell of it, you know, “Please, babe, I’ll be good, I won’t do it again, please don’t punish me…” I’m all over her with submission kisses, and seriously, that is purely for the hell of it because once she’s promised a punishment she’s yet to go back on her word, never happened before. She’s looking more and more impassive and I’m getting more and more turned on. I start to strip and she stops me. She says, “Who said your punishment was corporal?” Then she orders me to the car, has me drive to the ice-rink where there happens to be a curling tournament! It’s an all-nighter. I am then informed that I am to watch the whole of the ten ends of each of the four games and that there will be questions. The most painfully dull night I’ve ever had. And I was stuck inside an amulet for three months once.
So, no. I didn’t forget. This afternoon. To give her the gifts. I was just about to.
She was on my bed with a book − she’s always reading something, Lyri is, says she must catch up. Catch up on what? Eight thousand years’ worth of the written word? − and she looked so sexy! Sometimes, I swear, she’s just too sexy. Too sexy for her slinky leather-skin shirt. Not me who said it, it’s Right Said -- No one. Well, she’s definitely too sexy for my own good.
So I sit down next to her and I stroke her side, you know, the curve just above her hip. She looks up and I’m like, “Bluebird, you’re familiar with Valentine’s day traditions around here, right? How it’s customary for… people to show their fervour to the one they love by offering them chocolates, or flowers, or a card, something nice. Did you know that?” We’ve been together a bit over a year but this is our first Valentine’s day. Last year we all forgot it was Valentine’s day because Angel didn’t forget it was Christmas… Long story but basically, it involves our old pal Angelus. Anyway, my Lyri, this afternoon, she nodded all knowingly. And expectantly, like. “Oh right, good,” I says. “Don’t want you to look stupid if you’re around when Gunn gives his date a gift.” She looked disappointed and the last thing I wanted was for her to be upset. I just wanted her to be mad. So I had to make it clear I was taking the piss. She normally gets it quite sharpish. So I’m like, “Oh no, this is embarrassing. You were expecting something from me? Oh, pants! I knew you’d misunderstand one of our traditions someday. The keyword here’s “love”, love. So it doesn’t concern us. If I loved you, course I would’ve got you a gift. A couple of gifts, probably. But it’s not like I love you, is it? This is just about sex. Innit?” That was her cue to start the game.
This was mine: “Gifts are obsolete. Today marks the beginning of a new Valentine’s day custom. Severe castigation of disrespectful wooers.”
Yep, yep, yep. Hey, you don’t happen to be corporeal, do you? Didn’t think so. Bloody waste of space, you are. If you’d been corporeal, you could have gone to the coffee table in front of the telly, grabbed my fags, and lit one up for me. I am so gagging for a cigarette. Damn chains! She doesn’t always use chains, either. Sometimes it’s leather thongs or a rope or tights. Which is sexy, granted, but not very tough, right? So half the time I break them and bugger off. But these chains, I just can’t break. Not for want of trying, either. Damn chains!
And here you find me, probably halfway into the “castigation”, and I know what you’re thinking − ha ha, see how you like it. You’re thinking, “Aw, he’s got his wrists chained to the bed-posts. Boo-hoo. Big deal.” Well, first of all, I’ll have you know that my problems started way before you got here. What you don’t know, is that prior to being chained here bored outta my skull mentally snogging a cigarette, I spent a couple of hours sat at that desk up there, writing two hundred lines of “It’s not just about sex, I really do love you.” Oi! Stop giggling, you cheeky bugger. Think that’s funny? Are you staying, by the way? ’Cause she’s coming back!
After the lines, she got me to stand by the desk and she started undoing my trousers. I was getting turned on to a stupid degree so I thought, “Brilliant! Straight down to business.” I wish! It was my belt she was after. She’s like, “Shirt off.” I lose the T-shirt because I’m in enough trouble as it is. She’s silent for a bit, then she goes, “Shirt on. Jeans down. Imbecile.” I think she was referring to the direct sunburn. So I got me backside lashed instead of me back. And it didn’t half hurt either. Note to self. Invest in soft, light, silk or something belts. And afterwards, while she was doing up the chains, she was ramblin’ on about how breaking insolence patterns is always hard work but that it’s worth the effort for your stud must have the manners that befit your rank. And she concluded with: “I’ll be back.” And, excellent choice of quote because, honestly, the Terminator has nothing on her today.
See, this is where I’m a prat. All mouth and trousers. Because this afternoon, it all seemed like a damn good idea. We hadn’t done it that way for a while and I was missing it and I got stupid. Can’t help it, sometimes I just crave pissing her off! ’Cause she looks at you, with her ruthless eyes, those crystal blue eyes that say, “I’m Illyria, god-king of the Primordium, shaper of things, evil bitch monster of death!” And that’s… effulgent, man.
It’s not the pain, either, that’s the highest bang. At the minute, to be completely honest, the pain’s a pain in the arse. Um, literally. It’s her domination that’s the real kick. The pain’s a domination tool, so it’s gotta be had. Illyria knows that, that’s why she doesn’t let me get away with it. She is raiding the hotel as we speak, looking for ideas, an instrument to inflict pain with, something new. And she’s gonna find it. And I really don’t want it. Churning my stomach, it is. But there’s no going back now. The only way out would be if I safeworded and I’m not gonna safeword. Because safewords are for sissies. And because I wouldn’t get my demon-domination fix. But you know what? There’s no chains on your wrists, you lucky sod. I wouldn’t blame you for making a run for it. I know I would.
Oh, I’d spilt pig’s blood on her sarcophagus! That time with the curling. On purpose, of course, just to see what she’d do. Blimey! Sacrilege, big time! Plus, it’s kinda dangerous. In an ancient-mystical-sacred-object-anointed -with-a-classic-spell-ingredient way.
D’you hear that? Shit, shit, shit, shit. She’s heading back. Just heard her footsteps on the landing. Course: I’m sure! Bloody vamp ears, mate, I win. She’s coming ba--
What did I tell you? Oh, bloody hell, she’s got a bloody…
“Lyri, babe… What… What are you gonna do with that?”
You don’t have to stay, I’d scarper while you’ve still got time.
“I’m not certain yet. What name do you give this implement?”
“Where did you find that? And, seriously, what you gonna do with it? It’s completely impractical. How you gonna hurt me with that? It’s laughable.”
She’s not laughing. Go on. I won’t call you chicken, I’d leg it myself if I could. It’s gonna be a bloodbath. Follow your heart. You don’t wanna stay.
“Tormentors worry about the administering, tormentees worry about the withstanding. I’ve used more inadequate. A blade of grass, once. I’ll find a way, Spike. What is it called?”
She will, as well. Seriously. Go!
“It’s called… A plunger.”
ROTFLMAO That was great! 
Now that’s a real weapon of torture for sure! 
I am aware that this is not everybody's bag. Thanks for reading it anyway.
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