Title: Amaranthine
Author:
Alice J. Foster

Summary: Late S7 AU-- Their last moments together, before all hell breaks loose. Revised April, 2008.
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Spike/Buffy
Category: angst
Spoilers: Season 7.
Warnings: language, sexual content, adult themes, violence.
Rating: Hard R/M

Close call there in the shadows
There's an end to the dark
'Cause there's someone out there
Someone like me...
The hours pass so slowly, the life's slipping out of me
No way's the right way, is there a way out for me
The hours pass so slowly
The life's slipping out of me
Is there a way out for me?
The hours pass so slowly
The life's slipping out of me
Is there a way out for me?
There must be a way out for me...

Out of the Shadows by Sarah McLachlan

Amaranthine
\Amaran"thine\, 1. Eternally beautiful and unfading; everlasting.

Years of self-pleasuring in the room next to her mother's and in her dorm were proof that Buffy could be quiet when orgasming. Really, she could. She could climax without a whimper, without a sigh - she could even control the rocking sounds of her bed.

Then why couldn't she ever do quiet when Spike was fucking her?

She tries to turn her head, to bite into his pillow and muffle the sounds, but she ends up only biting her lip. Blood flows and she welcomes the metallic taste in her dry mouth - dry from all the screaming and moaning and groaning and--

… another trip over the edge. Sixth, seventh, she doesn't know, too busy concentrating on the feeling of his skin against her, his lips on her neck, and the soft caresses of his fingers over her breasts and hips.

His cock twitches inside her and she knows he's smelled her blood. He'll try to kiss her, she's sure, and part of her wants it. She wants the feeling of his tongue brushing against her as he tastes her sweet blood, drinking it all from her.

She can picture it in her mind - always could. Even before they ever kissed, she could picture it--him, drinking from her, fangs deep in her skin, and tantalizingly brushing against her soul. She would be dry in minutes and it would be perfect, such a pretty contrast to the way he makes her oh-so-wet.

He'd make her death painless, you see; because he'd promised it to her five years ago (or was it six now?) and if there was one thing she knew about Spike is that he did his best to keep his promises to her.

She would be gone and there would be no worries, just memories of dying by his hands and fangs.

He would follow her out of this world, this existence - of that she is sure. Selfishly, she treasures that idea, this unrequited promise of union in death.

They could never be united in life.

Death by Spike sounds so much better than all the other million deaths she could have - or the few she has had. She hates this apocalypse, with more force than she hated all the previous ones. This time, it feels definitive; it is as if, somewhere, deep down her body, she knows this will be her last apocalypse, no ticket back.

Dying by the hands of a Turok-Han or even the non-corporeal hands of the First Evil are not how she'd pictured it. Not that she isn't used to having her dreams crumbled into nothingness, but there is something more unfair about having her one dream of death being ruined in shreds, than all of her dreams of life shattering.

So she tries to enjoy life, or the last moments of it—in Spike's bed, in her basement.

The house is almost empty, no tell tale pitter-patter of feet above their heads. The silence in the basement is only broken by their loud moans and gasps, as they anxiously try to make each other forget about the deaths and the pain.

Others in the house are quiet; all pretend not to hear the sounds of pleasure coming from the lower level of the house. All willing to give them this last time together.

Because it is their last time. And they try to make it last.

the end

last revision: 04/26/2008