Fic: Mirror (Buffy/Nina, Adult)
Title: Mirror
Author: Maren
Pairing: Buffy/Nina
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She has a part of Angel you will never have.
Author Notes: Inspired by the B/N/S fic by![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
flurblewig and dedicated to Nina-lover doyle_sb4. This is my first time writing in second-person, a pov I know many people hate but it was necessary for the effect I was going for in this fic (which is which?) so I went with it. Un-beta'd, so any critiques will be appreciated.
***********
She is soft skin and blonde hair, hostile eyes and breathy moans. She is part monster, just like you, and when you meet her here in this economy hotel room once a week, every week, you wonder why the hell you can’t stay away.
Then you see her and remember.
She has a part of Angel you will never have.
When you slide the key card into the lock, you know what you’ll see when you open the door. She will already be inside—she always is—and she will look perfect. You wonder if she always looks that way, or if she does it just for you, just so you’ll see what she has to offer him. You suspect that’s it, because that’s why you take extra time to get ready on these days. Competition, survival of the fittest, whatever you want to call it, you can’t let her see you at anything other than your best.
There she is, perched on the edge of the bed with her arms crossed over her breasts, the fingers of her right hand tapping impatiently on her left forearm. You can smell a hint of her perfume in the stale air of the room, a spicy scent with dark notes, and your pulse picks up because you know from experience how good it smells when her sweat and arousal blend with that perfume.
Your sister unknowingly bought you a bottle of it for your last birthday, and you had to fight off the urge to throw up when you saw it there nestled in tissue paper. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, you pretended to be upset when you dropped the bottle and it shattered on the pavement as you got into your car after dinner.
You don’t want to know if Angel likes the scent.
She doesn’t say anything as you close the door, walk to the king-size bed and set your overnight bag down beside it. There are no clothes in the bag. Neither of you ever spend the night—most of the time, not even past the lunch hour. The bag’s contents change by week, and you take turns bringing it. This week it is nearly empty, but you don’t want her to know that. Not yet.
“You’re late,” she snipes, glancing at her watch. “I have class this afternoon.”
Shrugging, you stop just in front of her. “Traffic.”
She starts to open her mouth again, but you don’t want to hear whatever she has to say. Sometimes there is nothing you want more, nothing that makes your blood pound like the sound of her voice whispering in your ear. But today her voice is already grating on you and it’s her turn to listen.
Before she can voice her next thought, you wrap your hand in her hair and pull her up so that she is standing, trapped between your body and the bed. Your mouth is on hers, hard and demanding and her stiff resistance only lasts a moment before she opens for you.
Her tongue is so much smaller than you’re used to and you have the sudden urge to bite down on it. Instead you circle it with yours, tasting her taste you.
Small hands are pushing up the hem of your shirt, biting into the bare skin of your waist. Tightening your fist in her hair, you pull back until her lips are no longer mashed against yours.
“No marks,” you remind her with a voice that is already husky with your want. When her fingers loosen, you move your lips to the corner of her mouth and skim them across her cheek until they’re resting on the pulse in her neck. On the bad days, you struggle not to think about how many times he’s done this. On the worst days you torment yourself with the thought that her blood sings to him more strongly than yours. Today is a good day, because all you think about is how fast her heart is racing just for you.
Your lips move down the column of her throat, the skin stretched tight from your punishing grip in her hair. When you get to the space where her neck curves into her shoulder, you bite down gently. With a moan she grabs your hips and pulls them into her, grinding her pelvis against yours. A jolt of desire runs through you at the contact but you let go of her hair and push her back until she is sitting on the edge of the bed again.
A black ribbon adorned with a silver cross pendant is tied around her neck. You know from experience how Angel has a perverse habit of gifting his loved ones with crosses, and you wonder if he bought this for her.
In seconds the ribbon is shredded, the cross lost across the room in the busy pattern of the carpet. The black silk tank top comes off more gently. Her nipples tighten in the cold air that is streaming from the air conditioner in front of the window, a dusky red against the cream of her breasts and you are momentarily jealous of their beauty. But then it is gone, and you drop to the floor on your knees in front of her and rub your cheek against the curve of her. She sucks in a breath when you turn your face and wrap your lips around one hard bud, flicking it with the tip of your tongue while your mouth seals to her skin. Now it is her turn to wrap her fingers in your hair and pull with a force that is part urgency, part punishment.
Once you made the mistake of standing next to her in front of the mirror afterwards as you put yourselves back together. Hazel eyes met hazel eyes, blonde hair blended together. Now she dyes her hair at least a shade lighter, but you still avoid the mirrors.
Lips and tongue move from breast to breast as your hands busy themselves with the buckle of her belt, then the button and zipper of her jeans. They are tight, designed to show off the body beneath, and you have to pull away from her breasts to get them off. She tries to stop you, holds on tightly when your lips release their seal, but you bite down just enough to hurt, but not to mark (never mark). With a grunt of pain her grip loosens and you feel the pressure build inside you as a rush of wetness makes your upper thighs slide together beneath your skirt.
You aren’t wearing underwear—they’re in the car where you left them.
Hand to her breastbone and you push her back until she is resting her weight on her elbows. You unzip each high heeled boot, running your hand down the soft leather as you yank them off. Damn if you don’t covet them. But that’s what this is about—envy, jealousy, coveting what you don’t have. Then you are peeling her jeans down her legs, knuckles skimming her firm thighs as you tug.
She isn’t wearing underwear either. You wonder where she left them.
The first touch to her stomach reveals that she is quivering, little fluttering movements that make you want to scream. Instead you press in and slide your hand roughly down until the heel of your palm is pushing hard against her clit. You can feel the heat radiating from her cunt and you lean forward, pushing her legs apart with your free hand so that you can run your tongue down the crevice where her thigh meets her pelvis.
Her scent is exactly how you remember it, and a quick flick of your tongue against her lips confirms that she still tastes the same. You can hear the sounds of her quick panting breaths over the hum of the air conditioner and you smile, anticipating what will come next.
“Lay all the way back,” you command, your voice firm and only slightly muffled by her skin. You can’t see her face, but you know from experience that her eyes are flashing with a stubborn resistance. But she lies down without protest, and you knew she would do that too. Glancing up, you see her splay a hand across her stomach and run it up her body until it is cupping one breast, the nipple pushing out between two fingers. The sight makes your own nipples tighten and you rub against her clit a little faster, just like she likes it. Her hips arch up, pushing her wet center closer to your face and you give in to the urge to taste her more fully.
Tongue licks from ass to cunt, feather light caress that turns firmer as you stiffen your tongue and push it inside. With a cry, she arches up further, and you have to grip one bent knee with your free hand and push it back aside so that she doesn’t smother you between her thighs.
You think it would be nice to not have to breathe as you wrench these noises from her. Then you push those thoughts away, because you’re angry enough without the reminders of why you are both here.
It isn’t long before the muscles in her thighs and pelvis tense and she’s crying out in release. The sound she produces makes you throb, partly because you want to come too but mostly because it’s time to open the bag. You lighten the pressure on her clit, but leave your hand. Reaching behind you with your other hand, you unzip the bag and pull out the bottle of lubricant. It’s oil based and you know it will stain the ugly hotel bedspread, but you don’t care. You’re not allowed to stain her, but everything else is fair game.
She is still luxuriating in the aftershocks of her orgasm when you begin pushing inside her. By the time you add the fourth finger, she is moaning in a combination of pleasure and pain that you recognize well from other days, other activities. If she was anyone else, you might stop and ask her if you should continue, check to see if the pleasure is worth the pain. But she is who she is and you are who you are, and these two facts are what brought you together in the first place. So you squeeze your pinky and index finger together under your middle fingers where they rest inside her and slowly and steadily push your knuckles past the tight ring of muscles at the mouth of her cunt.
A groan of pain and she tries to scoot back, but her position is awkward and she doesn’t get very far. Your hand is buried inside her now and you slowly flex it into a fist as you rub your other hand against her clit. Her movements still as she adjusts, and then she is pressing back against you like she can’t get close enough.
Angel is well-endowed, but you know that your fist and wrist are creating a pressure and fullness inside her that she has never felt before. It is a powerful feeling.
Moving your hand off her mons, you quickly reach under your skirt and run your fingers up your inner thigh, gathering moisture as you go until you are touching your clit with wet, slippery fingers.
She cries out at the loss of pressure. “Please, I need. . .”
“Shut up and touch yourself,” you gasp, fingers moving in faster circles against your clit as you gently twist and pump the fist buried inside her. She complies and you watch as she curls two fingers over her swollen nub and roughly rubs.
You find yourself matching your rhythm to hers, your fingers moving in tandem, your breath panting out with hers, your gasps and moans nearly coinciding. The pressure is building and god you want to explode. Shifting the angle of your fist, you rock your knuckles back and forth against the wall of her cunt with firm strokes. Her whole body begins to stiffen as her fingers dance more quickly over her clit and then she is coming with strong, rhythmic convulsions around your hand.
”fuck fuck fuck fuck” she chants, low and guttural and a split second before you come, you wonder if Angel has ever heard this sound from her. Then your mind goes blank as you stop breathing, tightening and pulsing right along with her. You hear yourself call out her name, but the sound is mostly lost in the rushing noise in your ears.
You’re careful when you pull yourself free from her body, but she still winces with the pain. Part of you is glad—you knew it would hurt her, just as you knew it would make her scream with pleasure.
Knees creak as you slowly stand up, straightening your skirt with one hand. You walk on liquid limbs to the bathroom, still loose and humming from the strength of your orgasm. The sound of water echoes in the cold, tiled room as you wash your hands and run clean fingers through your hair to straighten it.
When you return to the bedroom, she is already dressed and heading out the door with your bag in hand. Next week it will be her turn, and you wonder what she’ll do to punish you.
You don’t know why you do this, why you put yourself through this week after week, month after month.
Then you catch sight of her shoulder blade laid bare by the skimpy tank, the curve of her hips in her skintight jeans as she walks away and you remember.
You have a part of her that Angel will never have.
***********
Author: Maren
Pairing: Buffy/Nina
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She has a part of Angel you will never have.
Author Notes: Inspired by the B/N/S fic by
flurblewig and dedicated to Nina-lover doyle_sb4. This is my first time writing in second-person, a pov I know many people hate but it was necessary for the effect I was going for in this fic (which is which?) so I went with it. Un-beta'd, so any critiques will be appreciated.***********
She is soft skin and blonde hair, hostile eyes and breathy moans. She is part monster, just like you, and when you meet her here in this economy hotel room once a week, every week, you wonder why the hell you can’t stay away.
Then you see her and remember.
She has a part of Angel you will never have.
When you slide the key card into the lock, you know what you’ll see when you open the door. She will already be inside—she always is—and she will look perfect. You wonder if she always looks that way, or if she does it just for you, just so you’ll see what she has to offer him. You suspect that’s it, because that’s why you take extra time to get ready on these days. Competition, survival of the fittest, whatever you want to call it, you can’t let her see you at anything other than your best.
There she is, perched on the edge of the bed with her arms crossed over her breasts, the fingers of her right hand tapping impatiently on her left forearm. You can smell a hint of her perfume in the stale air of the room, a spicy scent with dark notes, and your pulse picks up because you know from experience how good it smells when her sweat and arousal blend with that perfume.
Your sister unknowingly bought you a bottle of it for your last birthday, and you had to fight off the urge to throw up when you saw it there nestled in tissue paper. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, you pretended to be upset when you dropped the bottle and it shattered on the pavement as you got into your car after dinner.
You don’t want to know if Angel likes the scent.
She doesn’t say anything as you close the door, walk to the king-size bed and set your overnight bag down beside it. There are no clothes in the bag. Neither of you ever spend the night—most of the time, not even past the lunch hour. The bag’s contents change by week, and you take turns bringing it. This week it is nearly empty, but you don’t want her to know that. Not yet.
“You’re late,” she snipes, glancing at her watch. “I have class this afternoon.”
Shrugging, you stop just in front of her. “Traffic.”
She starts to open her mouth again, but you don’t want to hear whatever she has to say. Sometimes there is nothing you want more, nothing that makes your blood pound like the sound of her voice whispering in your ear. But today her voice is already grating on you and it’s her turn to listen.
Before she can voice her next thought, you wrap your hand in her hair and pull her up so that she is standing, trapped between your body and the bed. Your mouth is on hers, hard and demanding and her stiff resistance only lasts a moment before she opens for you.
Her tongue is so much smaller than you’re used to and you have the sudden urge to bite down on it. Instead you circle it with yours, tasting her taste you.
Small hands are pushing up the hem of your shirt, biting into the bare skin of your waist. Tightening your fist in her hair, you pull back until her lips are no longer mashed against yours.
“No marks,” you remind her with a voice that is already husky with your want. When her fingers loosen, you move your lips to the corner of her mouth and skim them across her cheek until they’re resting on the pulse in her neck. On the bad days, you struggle not to think about how many times he’s done this. On the worst days you torment yourself with the thought that her blood sings to him more strongly than yours. Today is a good day, because all you think about is how fast her heart is racing just for you.
Your lips move down the column of her throat, the skin stretched tight from your punishing grip in her hair. When you get to the space where her neck curves into her shoulder, you bite down gently. With a moan she grabs your hips and pulls them into her, grinding her pelvis against yours. A jolt of desire runs through you at the contact but you let go of her hair and push her back until she is sitting on the edge of the bed again.
A black ribbon adorned with a silver cross pendant is tied around her neck. You know from experience how Angel has a perverse habit of gifting his loved ones with crosses, and you wonder if he bought this for her.
In seconds the ribbon is shredded, the cross lost across the room in the busy pattern of the carpet. The black silk tank top comes off more gently. Her nipples tighten in the cold air that is streaming from the air conditioner in front of the window, a dusky red against the cream of her breasts and you are momentarily jealous of their beauty. But then it is gone, and you drop to the floor on your knees in front of her and rub your cheek against the curve of her. She sucks in a breath when you turn your face and wrap your lips around one hard bud, flicking it with the tip of your tongue while your mouth seals to her skin. Now it is her turn to wrap her fingers in your hair and pull with a force that is part urgency, part punishment.
Once you made the mistake of standing next to her in front of the mirror afterwards as you put yourselves back together. Hazel eyes met hazel eyes, blonde hair blended together. Now she dyes her hair at least a shade lighter, but you still avoid the mirrors.
Lips and tongue move from breast to breast as your hands busy themselves with the buckle of her belt, then the button and zipper of her jeans. They are tight, designed to show off the body beneath, and you have to pull away from her breasts to get them off. She tries to stop you, holds on tightly when your lips release their seal, but you bite down just enough to hurt, but not to mark (never mark). With a grunt of pain her grip loosens and you feel the pressure build inside you as a rush of wetness makes your upper thighs slide together beneath your skirt.
You aren’t wearing underwear—they’re in the car where you left them.
Hand to her breastbone and you push her back until she is resting her weight on her elbows. You unzip each high heeled boot, running your hand down the soft leather as you yank them off. Damn if you don’t covet them. But that’s what this is about—envy, jealousy, coveting what you don’t have. Then you are peeling her jeans down her legs, knuckles skimming her firm thighs as you tug.
She isn’t wearing underwear either. You wonder where she left them.
The first touch to her stomach reveals that she is quivering, little fluttering movements that make you want to scream. Instead you press in and slide your hand roughly down until the heel of your palm is pushing hard against her clit. You can feel the heat radiating from her cunt and you lean forward, pushing her legs apart with your free hand so that you can run your tongue down the crevice where her thigh meets her pelvis.
Her scent is exactly how you remember it, and a quick flick of your tongue against her lips confirms that she still tastes the same. You can hear the sounds of her quick panting breaths over the hum of the air conditioner and you smile, anticipating what will come next.
“Lay all the way back,” you command, your voice firm and only slightly muffled by her skin. You can’t see her face, but you know from experience that her eyes are flashing with a stubborn resistance. But she lies down without protest, and you knew she would do that too. Glancing up, you see her splay a hand across her stomach and run it up her body until it is cupping one breast, the nipple pushing out between two fingers. The sight makes your own nipples tighten and you rub against her clit a little faster, just like she likes it. Her hips arch up, pushing her wet center closer to your face and you give in to the urge to taste her more fully.
Tongue licks from ass to cunt, feather light caress that turns firmer as you stiffen your tongue and push it inside. With a cry, she arches up further, and you have to grip one bent knee with your free hand and push it back aside so that she doesn’t smother you between her thighs.
You think it would be nice to not have to breathe as you wrench these noises from her. Then you push those thoughts away, because you’re angry enough without the reminders of why you are both here.
It isn’t long before the muscles in her thighs and pelvis tense and she’s crying out in release. The sound she produces makes you throb, partly because you want to come too but mostly because it’s time to open the bag. You lighten the pressure on her clit, but leave your hand. Reaching behind you with your other hand, you unzip the bag and pull out the bottle of lubricant. It’s oil based and you know it will stain the ugly hotel bedspread, but you don’t care. You’re not allowed to stain her, but everything else is fair game.
She is still luxuriating in the aftershocks of her orgasm when you begin pushing inside her. By the time you add the fourth finger, she is moaning in a combination of pleasure and pain that you recognize well from other days, other activities. If she was anyone else, you might stop and ask her if you should continue, check to see if the pleasure is worth the pain. But she is who she is and you are who you are, and these two facts are what brought you together in the first place. So you squeeze your pinky and index finger together under your middle fingers where they rest inside her and slowly and steadily push your knuckles past the tight ring of muscles at the mouth of her cunt.
A groan of pain and she tries to scoot back, but her position is awkward and she doesn’t get very far. Your hand is buried inside her now and you slowly flex it into a fist as you rub your other hand against her clit. Her movements still as she adjusts, and then she is pressing back against you like she can’t get close enough.
Angel is well-endowed, but you know that your fist and wrist are creating a pressure and fullness inside her that she has never felt before. It is a powerful feeling.
Moving your hand off her mons, you quickly reach under your skirt and run your fingers up your inner thigh, gathering moisture as you go until you are touching your clit with wet, slippery fingers.
She cries out at the loss of pressure. “Please, I need. . .”
“Shut up and touch yourself,” you gasp, fingers moving in faster circles against your clit as you gently twist and pump the fist buried inside her. She complies and you watch as she curls two fingers over her swollen nub and roughly rubs.
You find yourself matching your rhythm to hers, your fingers moving in tandem, your breath panting out with hers, your gasps and moans nearly coinciding. The pressure is building and god you want to explode. Shifting the angle of your fist, you rock your knuckles back and forth against the wall of her cunt with firm strokes. Her whole body begins to stiffen as her fingers dance more quickly over her clit and then she is coming with strong, rhythmic convulsions around your hand.
”fuck fuck fuck fuck” she chants, low and guttural and a split second before you come, you wonder if Angel has ever heard this sound from her. Then your mind goes blank as you stop breathing, tightening and pulsing right along with her. You hear yourself call out her name, but the sound is mostly lost in the rushing noise in your ears.
You’re careful when you pull yourself free from her body, but she still winces with the pain. Part of you is glad—you knew it would hurt her, just as you knew it would make her scream with pleasure.
Knees creak as you slowly stand up, straightening your skirt with one hand. You walk on liquid limbs to the bathroom, still loose and humming from the strength of your orgasm. The sound of water echoes in the cold, tiled room as you wash your hands and run clean fingers through your hair to straighten it.
When you return to the bedroom, she is already dressed and heading out the door with your bag in hand. Next week it will be her turn, and you wonder what she’ll do to punish you.
You don’t know why you do this, why you put yourself through this week after week, month after month.
Then you catch sight of her shoulder blade laid bare by the skimpy tank, the curve of her hips in her skintight jeans as she walks away and you remember.
You have a part of her that Angel will never have.
***********
And yes - using second person was def. the way to go here. I love how I was constantly trying to fit the POV to Nina or Buffy, and then back again. And how kick ass (and distressing) it is that you can so easily do that with these two.
And also? Hoooottttttttuh. Like, nuclear.