He’s not there. I can feel him, deep inside me, as I pump my hips back, sliding him in and out of me, every slick slide of flesh, every twitch and moan is real, tangible, but when I open my eyes, there is only me; sweat slick hair brushing against my half-lidded eyelashes, damp, reddened hue of exertion on my cheeks as I thrust back again and again, quick, steady movement back and forth, pushing back harder into him over and over. I know he’s behind me, and that he’s thrashing within the ropes fastening him to the high bed posts, because I can see those ropes moving, seemingly of their own accord, in the large mirror I’ve fastened to the headboard of the bed. What I can’t see in the mirror is him.

I know he’s there, and I know why I can’t see him. When you fuck your vampire lover in front of a mirror, you’re not going to see his reflection, because he doesn’t have one.

I can see myself in the mirror, writhing against Spike, fucking myself on his thick, hard cock. His whispered moans inform me that he finds the sight erotic. I find it lonely.

Maybe if he were the one alone in the mirror, I would find it erotic. Even just the thought of him in my place, writhing against thin air, but feeling me, the way I’m feeling him, is hot. But it doesn’t break through the lonely sight before me.

So why don’t I stop, and remove the mirror, and let him fuck me, where I can see him? Why don’t I make a point of seeing him, so that I’m not lonely here anymore, despite his cool erection embedded deeply inside me.

Why don’t I change it?

Because it wouldn’t make a difference. I would still be alone. Not alone here in this bed, or this apartment. Alone in my heart.

I know that Spike is here for sex. He comes every night, just to come. Anya taught me a hundred different kinky things to do, and he enjoys them. He enjoys me.

But he doesn’t love me. He’s here, and he comes to come, and he even spends the night most nights, until he has just enough time to get back to Buffy’s basement before he’s missed, but he always leaves.

I know I have more invested in this relationship than he does. I know that I’m the one with the hope and the love and the idiocy of a teenage girl with her first crush. I know that I’m liable to get hurt, because I fell in love with a demon who will never love me back, soul or no soul.

I stop pushing back, and he howls in protest. I pull myself from him, his slick cock pulling out with a slight hop. I almost wish I had set up two mirrors, so that I could have seen my asshole stretched from having him in me. Next time. For now, I want to fuck my vampire.

I slide off the bed and stand behind him, my fingers already slick, slipping into him, preparing his asshole for me. Then I slide inside, and watch the mirror in fascination as my cock pushes in. I can see it, but it appears to be fucking empty space. He’s tight around me, but when I look into the mirror, he’s not there.

They used to say that your soul reflected in the mirror, projecting your image. Apparently they never thought about inanimate objects and souled vampires when they were making that comparison, but there you go. But maybe it explains why Spike’s not visible in my mirror. His heart, his soul, aren’t in this. His body is here, but he’s not here because he loves me. He’s here because I let him. Because I tie him to my bed posts and fuck him in front of a mirror.

So why the mirror?

They also used to say that mirrors hold the real truth. That what reflects in a mirror is the way things truly are, with no fantasy, no pretending. Cold, calculated, scientific truth.

In the mirror, Spike is absent. I look into the mirror, and my body is moving, fucking, being fucked, and eventually coming harder than with any other partner I’ve had, invisible muscles crushing my erection as Spike comes, too, but I’m alone.

In the mirror, Spike isn’t here. He’s not here in heart, and he’s not here in soul, so why should he be here in body? I’m alone in my feelings, so why shouldn’t I be alone in the mirror?

I continue to thrust into him, hard and fast and deep, my hips bucking against him, and staring into the mirror, at my cock, my hips, my body. But never my eyes.

I hope Spike is too enthralled with my cock twitching inside him to see the look in my eyes.

It’s enough for me to know that I’m alone, without him knowing that I know it.

And it’s lonely enough seeing myself alone in the mirror, without having to see just how alone I really am by the look in my eyes.


**BTW, the decoration scheme if you missed it? Hot blonde vampire tied to bed, and mirror. Mm.

He’s right here. I can touch his skin, touch his body, touch his heart. But he won’t let himself see me doing it.

A mirror. A bloody, fucking mirror. Can you think of a better way to make me feel like shit, Xan? Can you make me feel worse?

But I can’t blame him. It isn’t his fault I don’t tell him. It isn’t his fault he thinks he’s alone in this, even though he’s not.

It’s not his fault I don’t have a reflection.

I had to think of a way to fix this. He suggested the mirror, and we played with the mirror. It was hot, don’t get me wrong. Seeing him writhing there, seemingly alone, and still having his hot, slick heat in me, around me? Bloody wonderful. But I saw his eyes, when he was looking into that mirror, and I saw what he saw. Him, alone, because he was the only one who had the balls to lay open his heart in the middle of Times bloody Square.

So I had to think. How could I show him that when we were together, we were both there? That everything, absofuckinglutely everything he felt, I felt back wholeheartedly, but without the courage of a man who won’t live forever?

How could I show him the both of us, together, rather than one of us, alone.

Just fucking him? He’d see only me, and I’d see only him, and I don’t know what kind of complexes that would create in his buggered mind, but I know he’d somehow take it the wrong way and we’d be worse off than we started.

A picture? I show up on digital cameras, I know, but who’d take the picture? And where would I get a digital camera?

That’s when it occurred to me. A video camera. His beautiful body, my beautiful body, in our very own artful amateur porn video. Just the idea had my hips jerking with arousal. I stole a video camera within an hour, and I was here, in his home, 20 minutes after that.

The camera is recording, and I’ve got him on his hands and knees on the bed, leisurely thrusting into him. Gently, as if orgasm isn’t my ultimate goal here. Because while it’s inevitable and desired, it’s not my ultimate goal. My goal is to show him how beautiful he and I are together. How fully there we both are.

“Love…” I whisper in his ear, my hands roaming across his back, stomach, buttocks, drooling cock, chest, and he moans. I wonder if he even heard me, or understood, but it doesn’t matter yet.

“So good, Xan. So hot, and tight. So beautiful. Feel me in you. That’s me, in you. All in you.” My tone is purposefully erotic, my words arousing and true. Somehow, I think he should be the one in me, because he’s already worked his way into my heart. But that will happen again later. For now, I’m closer, and I can feel him shuddering beneath me as I speak, so I know he’s as close as I am.

“Spike…” he murmurs, and it’s his name on my lips that sends me bucking into him, hard, harder, so deep inside him as my release bursts into him, coating his insides with my come, with me. I feel him clench around me, gasp, cry out, and there’s scalding hot come on my hand, and I’m still shuddering, coming.

Eventually, the red daze lifts, and I become aware of my surroundings. I kiss his back, between his shoulder blades, and gently slide out of him with a slick slurp.

Xander lets his body fall to the bed, rolling onto his side. I grin and kiss him gently before standing and moving toward the camera.

“Forgot about that,” Xander says sheepishly. I’d forgotten about it too. Guess we got a little distracted, what with the wild, hot, passionate sex. And he thinks I don’t love him? Moron.

What, did he think gay sex was this hot for everybody? Not bloody likely.

Take the little cassette from the camera, put it in the adaptor tape, stick it in the VCR and rewind it. Show him the tape.

Us, on the bed writhing. My pale milk skin against his deep, dark blood-warmed skin. My lean muscles against his more bulky muscles. Light on dark, small on large, and it’s the most erotic thing. Grunts, groans, from both of us on the screen, and Xander’s heart speeding up beside me, and God I want to touch him but not yet.

I’m not through yet.

“Watch us, love,” I murmur to him, breaking down and wrapping my arms around him from behind. I’m leaning against the headboard, with him on my chest, between my thighs. We’re watching the tape, and I can see the effect it’s having on him. Hot.

“That’s us, Xan, love, together. You and me.” My mumbled words are interspersed with light touches up and down his arms, and he’s breathing harder now.

The me on the screen speaks. “So good, Xan. So hot, and tight. So beautiful. Feel me in you. That’s me, in you. All in you.” The me on the screen is oblivious to everything but love and sensation, and I know even Xander can’t miss the look of bliss on his, on my, face. The Xander in my arms whips his head around, to look into my eyes, disbelief, wonder, love, hope, dread. A gentle smile from me, and my lips are on his.

“I do love you, Xander. You’re not alone.”

“Spike…” Strangled, tight, and my hand around his cock, stripping the skin roughly with a stroking fist, tongues dueling before I direct him back to the screen, where we’re about to come.

“That’s us, love,” I strain out as his hot come coats my fingers, my cock throbbing its own release onto the small of his back, “that’s us, together.”