Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. These characters belong to Joss Whedon. God help them.
Summary: Spuffy in all its dark and sexy glory. Only not Glory, because we hate her, that bitch. Oops, sorry. This story picks up right after the last scene of "Once More With Feeling," and it jumps back and forth between different times, so I apologize for any confusion...the first two sections of this chapter occur after the third one and before the fourth. Yeah...weird I know...but it just *felt* right so that's how it got written. It contains spoilers for seasons 5, 6, and possibly others if I continue in the vein of resurrecting every heart-rending, adorable, and otherwise Spuffy-rific moment that has transpired since James Marsters joined the show.
A/N: I was poking around my computer and I came upon this story...just the first few chapters...and since I'm now a fanfiction-writing addict and a review junkie, I thought I'd toss it up on the site and see what y'all think. I may continue this, I may not. There's a lot of unexplored potential for this relationship in the show, probably because James Marsters and Sarah-Michelle Gellar are such amazing actors and have such amazing chemistry...I always see so much there that the script leaves untouched. We'll see...you guys can let me know whether you want me to continue, and maybe I will after the crazy kids of "PotC" relax their death-grip on my muse.
I.
He tastes like sin, a complex mixture of brandy and cigarette smoke and always under it that smooth sharp tang of copper. Angel tasted of blood sometimes, but Angel's mouth was always sweet to her, too, like chilled honey.
Spike's mouth is many things to her, but sweet is not one of them.
* * *
She tastes like sunlight, and he thinks it just might kill him. She is bloodhot and pliant and desperate and is everything he's ever dreamed her as except more so, and he closes his eyes and he's lost in her, drunk on her essence as she slides over his tongue like wine, almost too rich to be borne.
She tastes like sunlight and cherries, and under it an indescribable exotic flavor that is hers alone, the Buffy taste he will never get enough of.
She tastes like life, and he thinks it just might kill him.
* * *
His eyes are dark with emotion as he steps toward her. That darkness draws her into him, his mingled compassion and desire.
How can a soulless demon feel that deeply about anything...anyone... about *her*...when she feels nothing at all?
That's what she is thinking when their mouths meet. She wonders, --did I know this was going to happen? She wonders, --how long have I wanted this?
Because she does want it. At his touch something surges inside of her, something that is still alive...this hunger. She is so hungry for this taste of fire, this taste of him.
She wonders, --is this really happening? Her rational mind is screaming her disbelief. But the rest of her is kissing him and cannot stop.
He doesn't seem to believe it either, for a moment. Then his hands come up to her shoulders, he pulls her closer, responding to her hunger with deeper hunger until she matches it. This is not a gentle meeting, it is terrifying, full of violent need. Bodies pressed hard together, her skin electrified by his closeness.
She always used to attribute that rush to adrenaline, when they used to be mortal enemies. Before they became...whatever it is they are now--
--you're not friends. You'll never be friends--
And she pushes him away as hard as she can. Caught unawares, he is hurled against the brick wall, barely saving himself from falling.
He rights himself, raises those beautiful eyes to search her face, reaching out to her with a hand that trembles ever so slightly.
"Buffy..."
His voice is rough, pleading. For once he can't seem to come up with any more words. Nothing clever, nothing cutting, just her name. She can still feel the imprint of his body on hers; he is all over her, the smell of him clogging her nostrils and confusing her thoughts. She suddenly can't bear to look at him. She's afraid she might dissolve into tears; she's afraid she might fall to ashes, all burned out. She's afraid she might kiss him again.
"No," she says. "No..."
And she turns and runs.
* * *
He watches her vault the chain-link fence--one effortless bound, so much power in the slender limbs. He has never fully gotten over how tiny she is, even when she's tossing him into walls. Since her...return...she's lost weight, if that could be possible. But it's not the delicate twigs of her wrists or the sharpness of her exquisite collar bone that bother him.
He's never seen that much fragility look out of her eyes.
He lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
Even all the bitterness of smoke will not mask the taste of her.
Summary: Spuffy in all its dark and sexy glory. Only not Glory, because we hate her, that bitch. Oops, sorry. This story picks up right after the last scene of "Once More With Feeling," and it jumps back and forth between different times, so I apologize for any confusion...the first two sections of this chapter occur after the third one and before the fourth. Yeah...weird I know...but it just *felt* right so that's how it got written. It contains spoilers for seasons 5, 6, and possibly others if I continue in the vein of resurrecting every heart-rending, adorable, and otherwise Spuffy-rific moment that has transpired since James Marsters joined the show.
A/N: I was poking around my computer and I came upon this story...just the first few chapters...and since I'm now a fanfiction-writing addict and a review junkie, I thought I'd toss it up on the site and see what y'all think. I may continue this, I may not. There's a lot of unexplored potential for this relationship in the show, probably because James Marsters and Sarah-Michelle Gellar are such amazing actors and have such amazing chemistry...I always see so much there that the script leaves untouched. We'll see...you guys can let me know whether you want me to continue, and maybe I will after the crazy kids of "PotC" relax their death-grip on my muse.
I.
He tastes like sin, a complex mixture of brandy and cigarette smoke and always under it that smooth sharp tang of copper. Angel tasted of blood sometimes, but Angel's mouth was always sweet to her, too, like chilled honey.
Spike's mouth is many things to her, but sweet is not one of them.
* * *
She tastes like sunlight, and he thinks it just might kill him. She is bloodhot and pliant and desperate and is everything he's ever dreamed her as except more so, and he closes his eyes and he's lost in her, drunk on her essence as she slides over his tongue like wine, almost too rich to be borne.
She tastes like sunlight and cherries, and under it an indescribable exotic flavor that is hers alone, the Buffy taste he will never get enough of.
She tastes like life, and he thinks it just might kill him.
* * *
His eyes are dark with emotion as he steps toward her. That darkness draws her into him, his mingled compassion and desire.
How can a soulless demon feel that deeply about anything...anyone... about *her*...when she feels nothing at all?
That's what she is thinking when their mouths meet. She wonders, --did I know this was going to happen? She wonders, --how long have I wanted this?
Because she does want it. At his touch something surges inside of her, something that is still alive...this hunger. She is so hungry for this taste of fire, this taste of him.
She wonders, --is this really happening? Her rational mind is screaming her disbelief. But the rest of her is kissing him and cannot stop.
He doesn't seem to believe it either, for a moment. Then his hands come up to her shoulders, he pulls her closer, responding to her hunger with deeper hunger until she matches it. This is not a gentle meeting, it is terrifying, full of violent need. Bodies pressed hard together, her skin electrified by his closeness.
She always used to attribute that rush to adrenaline, when they used to be mortal enemies. Before they became...whatever it is they are now--
--you're not friends. You'll never be friends--
And she pushes him away as hard as she can. Caught unawares, he is hurled against the brick wall, barely saving himself from falling.
He rights himself, raises those beautiful eyes to search her face, reaching out to her with a hand that trembles ever so slightly.
"Buffy..."
His voice is rough, pleading. For once he can't seem to come up with any more words. Nothing clever, nothing cutting, just her name. She can still feel the imprint of his body on hers; he is all over her, the smell of him clogging her nostrils and confusing her thoughts. She suddenly can't bear to look at him. She's afraid she might dissolve into tears; she's afraid she might fall to ashes, all burned out. She's afraid she might kiss him again.
"No," she says. "No..."
And she turns and runs.
* * *
He watches her vault the chain-link fence--one effortless bound, so much power in the slender limbs. He has never fully gotten over how tiny she is, even when she's tossing him into walls. Since her...return...she's lost weight, if that could be possible. But it's not the delicate twigs of her wrists or the sharpness of her exquisite collar bone that bother him.
He's never seen that much fragility look out of her eyes.
He lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
Even all the bitterness of smoke will not mask the taste of her.