Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. Everything is owned by Joss Whedon and all his affiliates. No copyright infringement intended.
Placed between Something Blue and Hush.
Warning: Explicit sexual content and blood play. But it's Spike so you should have saw that coming. Also there may be some flowery malarkey towards the end, but that's cause I'm an unrepentant romantic at heart.
A/N: The set up is pretty trite. But I serve up trite family style and hand out big honkin' spoons.
Sweet Agony
Part Two
The door had barely clicked shut when she began to writhe beneath him. He clamped down, caging her to the bed with his body. He sealed his mouth over her wound, sucking the sweet candied blood into his mouth in a fiery gush.
"Oh, God. Spike. Don't stop. So good."
She bucked her hips into his, grinding her ass against the large bulge in his jeans. His first instinct was to ram forward to meet her, but the stickiness of her blood clumping his shirt reminded him how grievously wounded she was. He placed a hand on her uninjured hip and pressed her down into the bed, trying to keep her from hurting herself too badly.
He kept his lips sealed over her wound in a sucking kiss as the last waves of her pleasure washed over her. When she finally stilled beneath him, her last quivering gasp silenced, he forced himself to unclamp his hand and lips from her. He reared back on his knees, her prone body still trapped between his thighs. His eyes squeezed shut, his hands knotted to white-knuckled fists at his sides, as he fought the demon for control. One wrong twitch and he was going to spew in his jeans. She was so delicious. So utterly perfect in everyway. He wanted to devour her until everything she was thundered inside him like a summer rainstorm.
When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him from over the pale curve of her shoulder. He couldn't remember seeing anything more beautiful in his entire unlife. Her pupils were blown wide with the pleasure they shared, while the thin band of hazel was bruised in agony. She was exquisite and about to be all his. He reached behind his head, fisting the material of his black t-shirt so he could whip it over his head in one smooth action. His pale sculptured torso gleamed in the moonlight. Her eyes widened, but she didn't look away, coaxing a knowing smirk to his lips. He flattened his hand on his collarbone, dragging it slowly down to the waistband of his jeans. Her eyes followed as if hypnotized, from the line of his powerful shoulders, across his well-developed chest and down his delineated abs. Her perusal stopped at the fly of his jeans where his long fingers tapped tauntingly. He knew the darkness of his jeans and the low light made it impossible for her to see the bulge, but she knew it was there, and her knowing only made him harder. The button of his jeans came undone with a careless flick of his thumb and forefinger.
He saw her distress in the curve of her lower lip, before she hid her face away in the crook of her arm. It was the only thing that saved her from a reprimand. She should never look away from him. He shook the wayward thought away, reminding himself that she was the Slayer not a minion. The conditioning wouldn't be as effective as it would be on a mere human. Reprimanding her would get him dusted if he wasn't careful. His power over her would be in the gratitude she would feel towards him, not in asserting authority he couldn't enforce.
She shuddered as another wave of pain hit her. The reprieve after breaching the first circle of conditioning was the shortest she would have this night. The waves of agony would build again, and if left unchecked they would crest as they had before.
"'S alright, baby. The Big Bad's goin' make it all better." He crouched over her, still careful to keep distance between them. His cock pressed painfully against the zipper of his jeans, but he didn't trust himself to undo his pants entirely. Impatience had ever been his downfall. He wouldn't let it ruin this moment. The largest, most painful gash in her back was cleansed, but other smaller ones would be burning with sweet agony soon enough. He lapped at her flesh, reveling in the shivers of her body beneath him. He could feast on her all night, but he had a plan. There would be no distractions this time, no matter how delectable they were.
"Say sumthin'," he commanded.
"Why?" Her voice was harsh, like she had been slamming whiskey shots all night.
Spike hummed in response against her skin. "Like I said, afore. Need to make sure the poison hasn't gone straight to your brain."
"No. Why are you doing this?"
"You mean, 'sides the obvious, luv?" He swabbed a small cut with a long, languorous lick that she could feel in her clit. She jerked, then stilled, as if by barely breathing she could control what she felt.
"It's hurting again," she hissed. "Poison?" Buffy was confused. She knew she was with Spike. She knew he was the only one keeping the pain at bay. Obviously, she'd been poisoned somehow, but why didn't Giles cure her? Snatches of disembodied conversation between Giles and Spike, danced around her consciousness, but it was hard to put the entire story together when so many pieces were missing. How was it that she was here with Spike?
He feasted on particularly deep wound as he thought about how to answer her. As the night progressed her cognation would become sharper, and that's when the real training began. It was imperative that she associated not only physical pleasure, but pleasurable emotions and memories with him. Forcing her to talk now, only served to set a precedent for later when he started asking more intimate questions. Explaining to her now the circumstances of the poison would be the most ideal, since her mind was still hazy, and she was less likely to protest his methods.
"There's some rot in your blood makin' you hurt. 'm cleanin' it out for you, luv, but these things go in cycles."
Her arms shielded her face, but he could see her small hands fisting into the coverlet. Whether it was from pain or pleasure couldn't be deciphered. At this stage it was more than likely a discomforting mixture of both.
"Cycles?" she gasped into the bed. He grinned, knowing she wasn't going to like this part of the explanation. He lowered his hips, ghosting his thighs against the backsides of hers.
"Mmmhmm." He hummed low and sultry against her skin. "Every time you cum on my tongue, that's a cycle. After each cycle the pain lessens an' the reprieve between intervals increases. 'Course if you walk away before breachin' all the levels, it begins all over. The pain rampin' up 'til it kills you." She whimpered beneath him. A mixture of pain, pleasure and powerlessness. It was a glorious concoction.
"How many?" Her voice cracked with strain.
"Cycles?" She shuttered in response, and he thought something in his groin might burst. He gripped the underside of her elbow, sliding it further up, so he could lave his tongue over a thin slash that slid from her back to the side of her pillowed breast. "As many as it takes," he whispered against her sensitive skin, lapping up her shivers.
"Can't we just wash it out?" she whined. Logical Buffy knew there had to be another way than this. This was wrong on so many levels that right might never be found again.
"Nah, only makes the pain worse." He nuzzled the back of her head, inhaling her scent. "You don't want it to be worse, do ya? Burn you inside out?" He paused a beat, breathing over her flesh, but not tasting. "Should I nip out for a smoke, then?"
"No!" She bucked in panic. He chuckled, holding her down.
"I'm not goin' anywhere, kitten. I promise."
"Please, Spike. I'm so close."
The small wounds on her back were mostly cleaned, but she still had numerous lashes on her shoulders and arms. He could feel the tension rolling through her tight little body, coiling like a spring. He latched his lips on a deep wound on her ribs, balancing his weight on one arm as his other hand dipped between her thighs. She clamped her legs together in protest, trapping his long fingers at the seam outside her panties.
"Come on, baby. Cum for me," he whispered over her ribs, as he slicked his mouth down the wound to where it bled clear candy poison. He rocked his hand against her, sucking hard.
"Spi-ike!" Her thighs loosened and his fingers were able to find her swollen clit. He kept his fingers outside her damp panties as he circled it in a practiced caress that had her bucking and moaning as her climax rushed through her body. He rode the waves of her pleasure, lost in the ecstasy that was her. Her taste, her skin, the way she moaned just for him. Every little detail that was only Buffy. He was so completely lost in her, that he didn't feel the shift in her body, but he felt her elbow slamming into his cheekbone. He fell backwards, landing in a heap on the floor.
"You bloody bitch! What was that for?"
She moved slowly, still riding the high of her climax and nowhere near being full strength. Not even half strength. Hell to be honest, she was weak-kitten Buffy at the moment. She plucked up a pillow, tucking it in front of her as she turned to stare down at him from where she lay on the bed.
"I feel better now," she rasped.
He stared at her for long moments. She was poised on the bed, a feather pillow her only barrier against him. She was the Slayer. She was used to being in control of her body. It was natural for her to resist this, to resist him, through it didn't make him any less angry. He didn't want her to see how furious he was though. He wanted her to feel like she was in control. Make her let her guard down.
"M' job's all done then, pet?" He gingerly lifted himself into a comfortable leather armchair beside the bed. Its close proximity to the closet, suggested that Rupert sat in the same chair every morning to put his loafers on. As he spoke, she lost the struggle to rest her weight on her elbow, too weakened by poison and blood loss. She lay in half circle facing him, her pillow chastely covering her breasts and tucked between her legs.
"Yeah. I could probably hold out for Angel now."
Heard that part of the conversation, did she? Yeh, she'd like that. The great poof slobbering all over her. Disgusting, that was. He absently patted his pockets for his cigs, before remembering he left them in his duster downstairs. Damn, he needed a post-coital smoke. Especially since the scent of camphor in the room had given way to blood and sex.
"Sure. You're a tough lil' bint. Give it a go."
He toed his boots off, before propping his bare feet on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed. He leaned back, taking great pleasure in hooking his thumb into his pants, using the weight of it to split open his zipper just a little more. He grinned, noting her eyes glued to his long fingers that were curled around his prominent bulge. Slattern. He trilled his fingers along his fly and her eyes immediately darted up to his. Her brow creased and he had to check his sigh. Here we go.
"Why are you here, Spike? Obviousness, aside.
He shrugged. A lazy cat waiting for its prey. "Your dial-a-vamp boyfriend couldn't make it."
"Dial-a-vamp?"
"Yeh. 1-800-I-can't-solve-my-problems-without-you. Don't you go runnin' to him every time you need help?"
"I do not! And he's not my boyfriend." He merely raised his scar brow at her tardiness in denying Angel's boyfriend status. "He's not, and I don't!" she fumed. Her hands fisted on the pillow she held, and for a moment he thought she was going to throw it at him. He leered and slumped a little lower in his seat so he could get a prime view. She pulled it tighter, looking away to a darkened corner. "I'm the Slayer. I fight my own battles. Been doing it for a while now."
Her despondent tone made him uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat. His raging hard on wasn't in danger of going away anytime soon, making sitting in tight jeans one of his least favorite things to do. He needed to put them back on course. He needed Buffy back in his mouth.
"So you say," he purred agreeably. "Peaches ain't your vamptoy, no more. Good thing with that whole soul losin' and what not." He cocked his head as if a particularly wondrous thought just struck him. "Do you suppose bringin' you off over an' over will give him the big happy?" He rubbed his finger over his lips, pretending to be lost in thought. "No, I suppose not. Big wanker always was selfish. Not jus' satisfied with seein' his woman looked after. He's gotta have it himself."
"Yeah."
Shocked at the soft-spoken agreement, he glanced back at the bed. Buffy was arched around her pillow like it was a life raft in a sea of trouble. Her thighs were clamped down on one end, and her arms wrapped around the other. Her chin was tucked into her chest, making her voice sound more distant than it was. Even so, he didn't think he was meant to hear that. It must have just slipped out. Poor bint. However, the seeds of doubt were sown, and her dejection was the opening he was looking for.
"What's the matter, pet? Don't like my services?" He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. Her dark eyes tracked his movement without her usual flicker of disgust. "'ave Rupert run down to the local gravestone to pick up a spot of willin' vamp tongue, shall I?" She flashed him a look of pure aggravation that made him shiver.
"You never did answer me?" She intoned, all fire beneath a veneer of ice. Could freeze a corpse dead then set it on fire with a look, she could.
"Was'at?"
"Why are you doing this, besides the obvious?"
She was glaring at him with dark eyes that weren't going to back down until she had an answer that satisfied her. Fuck, she was beautiful. She never broke. Never. He dropped his feet, and slowly leaned forward in his chair resting his elbows on his knees so they were at even height.
"Never underestimate the obvious. I'm a bloke, and you're a sweet chit who tastes like sunshine in a bottle. All I wanna do is eat you up, kitten." She buried her face further into her pillow and he chuckled. Crises averted, he leaned back in his chair, a study of practiced bad boy nonchalance.
"Why can't we just wash it out? Or maybe run down to the drugstore and get some aspirin? Or maybe some Oxi." She warmed to the idea. "Something to knock me on my ass until next week." Her voice was pitched with desperation, and he noticed how she trembled slightly. The pain was starting build again. Stubborn bint was going to try and tough it out.
"Yah, 'cause Oxi's available at every local Five and Dime."
She glared at him from over her pillow, her bangs plastered with sweat to her brow. He suppressed the urge to sigh. She was only making it worse.
"Oh. I'm sure you know someone, Spike."
"Oi! I never touch the stuff." He rubbed his hand down his chiseled chest. If he had been human only a healthy diet and a strict work out regiment could have achieved such perfection. Body's a temple and all that. "That stuff will kill ya."
She scoffed. "I don't think you have to worry. Cigarettes and booze will be your downfall."
"Damn straight," he agreed with relish. "Anyways, it doesn't work thataway. Vamp poison; vamp cure."
"Of course," she muttered, seemingly lost in her thoughts. She cut through the cemetery on her way to meet Riley, who probably thought she was a complete flake now for not showing up at the Bronze. Then she ran into Vampzilla, the dominatrix vamp on kitty steroids. The ho ruined her evening and possibly her potential, budding relationship.
"I knew that bitch was trouble with a side of FU."
Spike figured she was talking about the vamp who did this to her. Of course, his girl used her patent; dust first, ask later method she used for all her fights. Good thing, too! Or he wouldn't be sitting here with a naked Buffy. She did a little shimmy that could have been construed as erotic, if he didn't know that it was driven by pain. If he let this go any further, they'd lose any ground they gained.
He stood up, smirking a little when he saw the flash of fear on her face born from feeling like trapped prey. She quickly hid it away as he leaned over her, pressing his advantage while he could. "Look you stubborn lil' bint. Angel's not gonna be here anytime soon, and given the last time you got anywhere near post-coital with him, I'd think you wouldn't want him to be. So unless you really do want me to tell the Watcher to scare you up another vamp to slobber on you, I'm gonna need to clean that poison out afore you pop."
She rolled slightly to her back to see him better as he towered over her, using the pillow as a fluffy shield to protect her precious soddin' virtue. Her gold hair was haloed around her head, gleaming in the pool of moonlight she lounged in. She stared up at him with wide eyes that were filled with pain, fear and a nasty dose of anticipation that made them both shiver, abet for different reasons. Her chin dipped ever so slightly, and Spike had to curb the urge to growl in victory. She was a skittish little thing, and he didn't want to startle her into snortin' and kickin' like a mule.
He jerked his chin, indicating she should roll over. She carried her pillow with her, dragging it away at the last moment so she could lay prone on her stomach. He took up the same position as earlier, only this time he was sure to brush his bare chest over her back as he settled himself higher up her body to reach her injured shoulders and arms. He trailed his fingertips up the sensitive undersides of her arms, pushing at her elbows, until they curled around her head, and her cheek lay flat on the coverlet. He leaned around to see her face, but she quickly turned her head away with the disdain of a queen. Spike glared at the mass of blond hair tickling his nose. He knew what she was doing. If she didn't have to acknowledge it was him who was making her knickers wet with every swipe of his tongue—that it was him starving off the agony by bringing her off—then she could fool herself into believing it was her great ponce of an ex or even her newest toy she had been going on about lately. No matter. He was still training her. Conditioning her to his tongue, his mastery. He had watched Darla enough times to know how to pull off the soft touch of seduction.
He lapped at a wound on her shoulder, easing the pain molding her muscles into hard, unmovable slabs of marble. Even stiff with pain she was beautiful and desirable, but he knew she would be gorgeous, lush and soft with pleasure. He could tell by the minute relaxation of her body the pain was ebbing, but the pleasure hadn't yet started to build. He leaned close, nuzzling the back of her neck while he spoke.
"Still need you to talk to me, luv."
"Don't call me that."
"What? Luv?"
"It isn't true."
"Jus' and endearment, pet."
"We aren't endearment kinda people. And don't call me pet."
"Speak for yourself. I've decades of practice with 'em. Pet, luv, princess." He laved his tongue over her wounds after every word, speaking slow and steady with a mesmerist's intonation. He was lulling her with his words. His voice. His breath that was cool on her heated skin. "It's all about finding the one that fits. I know. How about kitten?" He delved his fingers between her thighs, cupping her pussy on the outside of her panties. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty," he whispered into her ear. She clamped her thighs together, and bucked him away. Finally, she deigned to look at him, a hot glare that could boil toads.
He smiled and shrugged. "What? Too soon?"
Her pink lips parted in a snarling grimace that nearly had him creaming in his jeans. God, if only she knew how fucking gorgeous she was. He slid his hand away from her quim, and planted it on her hip despite the renewed hatred in her gaze. He lapped at the candy poison, and her eyelashes fluttered, cooling the fire inside her. She turned away so she didn't have to see him, but there was no forgetting the weight of Spike's possessiveness on her hip.
"Me mates, are always goin' on about how college girls jus' don't know when to shut up. Yet, here you are."
"You don't have mates, Spike."
"Say's you."
She sighed, rubbing her eyes before settling again. "What do you want me to say?" She asked with resignation.
Spike shrugged as if it made no never mind to him, but that couldn't be further from the truth. He needed her to dwell on the things that made her happy. Things she would later associate with him.
"Start with sumthin' simple. How about the best day of your life?" Spike already knew his best day would be when he finally killed the slayer and her little band of scoobies. Though in all honesty, until that happened, this night was topping the charts at number one, and that included when his dark goddess came into his life and made him into something wonderful.
Buffy was taken aback by the question. She searched through a plethora of memories, searching for anything she could call best. All she found was a kaleidoscope of bad days with an intermingling of some good. Even before being Called her life had been filled with fear and uncertainty. Her parents fought constantly, their arguments secretive at first, as if Buffy couldn't hear the furious whispering in their bedroom, until they crescendoed into all out brawls in the days before her father left.
It was all laid out before her. Her parents fighting, her father leaving, being Called, the ostracism by her peers for her weird behavior, the disappointment in her mother's eyes, the endless nights of fighting, Angel, Angelus, Ms. Calendar, the disappointment in Giles eyes, Angel leaving, Parker's lies, Spike's taunts, the wedding she never was going to have. It was all just one long stream of bad days.
Spike smelt the saltiness of her tears, before heard them. He shifted to the side just as a tear slid from the inner corner of her eye, over the narrow ridge of her nose to drip onto the green and burgundy coverlet. "No best days." She squeezed her eyes shut, and more tears leaked out. "Just day after day of bad ones. Never ending, on going, badness."
Spike's demon watched with a surge of triumph. This was it. The beginning of the end. The death wish all slayers carried inside them started as a fledgling thought, but as the harshness of their lives eroded their purpose, darkening their pristine souls, the thought became a yearning. A desire blooming and rotting within their hearts. In a year, maybe two, she'd be ripe, and he would be there to do the plucking. A third slayer to notch on his belt as he swaggered by the awed demon masses. They would crown him a king. The Big Bad, Slayer of Slayers.
She shuddered beneath him. Not in pleasure, but in pain. Her hand fisted in the blankets.
"Spike," she pleaded and he found himself addicted to the sound of his own name. His name sounded like a death cry. A gasp then a crunch. Somehow she made it sound like life. A plea then salvation.
He dipped down and laved a narrow wound on her forearm with one long, steady stroke. Her breath caught and she arched into him, her buttocks bucking his thighs, urging him to lean closer. Her back and shoulders were hot against his cool chest. He could still smell her tears and the man in him wanted to wipe them away. He looped his long fingers around her wrist, tucking her arm under as he drew her narrow back into his wider chest in unspoken comfort.
Buffy wanted to weasel away from his embrace, but she couldn't find the will. A few weeks ago the idea of Spike at her back would have sent her reaching for the nearest stake. Him breathing at her nape would have had her praying for either deliverance or a quick death. But since their faux engagement, she couldn't quite dredge up the fear being held down by William the Bloody should invoke. She had seen a different side of Spike, a side she would have never imagined. She'd shared something with him she didn't dare give voice to, a type of intimacy having nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with letting someone inside the wall surrounding her heart. She hated him for that. For being inside her defenses without even realizing he was there, then leaving her bereft and cold with a memory of something so sweet it hurt, even if it was only a lie.
"No best days, then. How about a good memory? Jus' one. One where you got a favorite dolly for Christmas or some such rot."
Buffy snorted. He wanted precious things from her. She could sense that, but didn't know why. This was another thing that she hated about the Thy Will Be Done spell. The fact she wanted to share these precious things with him, wanted to bestow upon Spike little bits of knowledge that when eventually put together would form the mosaic that was her.
"I never played with dollies." She tried to keep her voice even, but she could hear undertones of need as he continued to taste her with his wicked tongue.
"Action figures?" He deepened his voice, sounding ridiculously hollow as if he was trying to imitate the moviefone voice.
"Whatever." She paused a beat. "My little ponies. Friendship is magic, you know." Buffy thought of Willow as they curled up on their respective beds, facing each other, eating ice cream and sharing secrets. Four years of friendship and there were still secrets to be shared. Will I share this one? This shameful, sexy, kinda sweet in a dirty sort of way, secret. Buffy didn't think so. This night will be tucked away with her handful of other untold secrets: her not killing Angelus when she had the chance, the miniscule, split second of relief she felt when she did kill him. What she felt when Spike was on his knees, a ridiculous skull ring in his hand. Feelings that didn't go away even with the magic did.
"You have real depth, Summers. Getting warm tinglies over cartoon ponies that shoot rainbows out their arses. Will I find a cutie mark when I finally pull your knickers off?"
Buffy couldn't hone in on a single emotions fast enough, they kept popping up with every word he spoke. Shame, disappointment, anger, indignant outrage. "My knickers will be staying right where they are, thank you very much." Buffy was proud of the disdain she was able to infuse into her words, even when it felt like he was taking her apart piece by piece with every lap of his tongue. He just chuffed against her shoulder like a great cat and licked her heady again. The swirl of pleasure couldn't quite banish her disappointment.
Although she hid it well, it was moments like these that she felt childish and insignificant. If Spike thought she lacked depth, what did Angel think? They had lived lifetimes, seen the world and its multitudes several times over, while she was just a girl who hadn't been any further than Disneyland. All she knew of the world was where it ended-in the dark where all the bodies were hidden. She attempted to project superiority, but most of the time she knew she was inferior. If she wasn't the Slayer then she would be nothing. Neither of them would have even stopped to look twice at her, unless it was to drain her as a passing snack. Yet, it was that normalcy that she chased with such fervor. The idea of being a normal girl, not the slayer. Someone who would be overlooked in a crowd. Someone who was insubstantial, unremarkable, and would be blessed with a future and long life.
"The dress."
"What?" Spike sounded hazy, and she wondered if it was possible for a vampire to get drunk off blood.
"You asked for a good memory. The most recent was the dress."
"What dress?"
"When we were—you know." She fidgeted. Her feelings were mixed. On the one hand she had felt so much happiness it had been nearly impossible to contain. On the other hand it was all a spell induced lie. Did that mean it wasn't a real memory?
"Engaged," Spike offered.
"Bespelled," she disputed. She could feel him shrug behind her. She could feel every hard line of his body though he wasn't touching her. He gave off no heat to define his presence, but somehow she intuitively knew where she ended and he began. A slayer's instincts she insisted. A woman's sensitivity she dissented.
"What about it?"
"It's a good memory. I mean, not you per se."
"Thanks ever so, slayer."
She snorted. "Hello. Evil vampire. Not picket fence material." She wiggled beneath him, hoping he'd get the hint to brush more of his cool skin against her heated body. The bastard leaned closer, but didn't quite touch her. She was certain he knew what she wanted, but enjoyed torturing her anyhow.
"'Specially with you as a wife. Woulda got a bit of picket fence shoved in my chest the first time I dinna take out the trash."
"You should be so lucky to have me as a wife."
Yah, probably. Spike quashed the stray thought with ruthlessness. It was those humanesque thoughts, which usually got him into trouble. That's why Dru left him. It's why he kept coming back to this hellhole. He was a sentimental arsehole.
"But the engagement stuff. The invitations, cake and songs. And the dress in the window, all white and lacy."
"Figures you would go all 'White Wedding', all caught up in the knick knackery of it all."
"Exactly how well did you know Billy Idol?" she asked in exasperation. The pain had all but receded, and now pleasure was swimming at the surface like a Great White honing in for the kill. She wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. There was something unsettling about coming undone in front of a man who loved her for only one day before remembering their mutual hate. Talking allowed her to concentrate on something other than the building pressure at the bottom of her belly. It allowed her to deflect her mind, until it was too late to stop it from rushing over her.
"Who'dya think wrote the lyrics to 'Cradle of Love,' baby?"
"Figures. You're skeezy like that."
"Oi! 's a bloody love song."
"Yah. For pedophiles."
"'m over a hundred and twenty years old," he murmured and she could feel his smile against his skin. It took a moment for his words to sink in.
"Ewww. Spike!"
He chuckled. The sound was dark and thick like chocolate covered sin. "You're all babes in the wood to me, slayer."
She buried her face in the blanket, deciding this wasn't the best course of the conversation. Squicky lyrics aside, rocking the cradle of love was sounding pretty tempting right about now. Almost of their own accord her hips canted back, brushing against the bulge of his cock. His jeans were course against her sensitive skin and she shuddered. He leaned forward, pressing against her ass as he sucked on her shoulder. She felt the world tilt and she fought to hang on, to fight and not give in.
"Besides, that wasn't it at all," she stuttered into the blanket, trying to steer the conversation back to it's origin.
Spike lifted his head, genuinely interested. "What then?"
"It was the planning. The expectation of you and me being someplace, somewhere at a certain time. It was the rubber stamp approval, saying 'yes, its okay to have a real life'. Planning a wedding meant planning a future where I wasn't going to potentially die the next day, week or month. It was about living for a future where I loved someone and was loved in return. It was something normal. Something better."
Buffy hid her face, mortally embarrassed she had shared something so intimate. What could Spike possibly say to that? What would she want him to say? Willow's Thy Will Be Done spell had done more than put her in a compromising position with Spike. It had put her in a compromising position with herself. It forced her to contemplate her future in a way she never truly committed to before. Sure, she was all with off-handed quips about her expiration date, but it wasn't something truly accepted. She starved it off with friendships, and boyfriends, dancing at the bronze, and late night movie marathons. She immersed herself in normal to mystify reality, but Willow's spell pulled the veil away, leaving her with the naked truth. She was going to die young and beautiful just like Ford had wanted all those years ago. Except it wasn't something she wanted. She wanted to live. Not forever. Forever meant losing her soul. But she wanted to live longer than her expiration date. A lot longer.
Spike contemplated the girl beneath him as he cleansed her wounds. On a physical level he was aware of her body, probably more acutely than she was. Her heart was thudding hard and heavy in her chest. Her blood was a rush in her veins, her muscles quivered with butterfly delicacy. Unconsciously, she was rocking against him, seeking satiation for the pleasure building inside of her. Her breaths were coming in pants, dotting her words with tiny gasps. She spoke in a rush, as if she knew she had to get the words out before everything came crashing down.
However, the crashing may be more emotional than physical. The conditioning was supposed to invoke pleasure, both in body and mind, but his little slayer didn't work like that. Even the things that gave her pleasure where tainted with a core of darkness. Not the kind of darkness he lived in. His darkness was at the surface. Easily accessed in a crunch of cartilage and an elongation of teeth. His ran rampant, bathing in blood. But the slayer. Her darkness was tightly wrapped up beneath layers and layers of so much rotting mulch, which was her life, the fear of it all ending in oblivion seeded away in her soul. There was no comforting that. No curing it. No laving it away with his tongue. There was only confronting it.
"If you're so soddin' sure you aren't goin'ta have a future, why you goin' to uni?" She didn't answer, but it didn't take him long to suss it out. The way her body stiffened beneath him, how she covered her eyes with her hand, spoke of shame, and in his experience shame came from two places. Religion and family. "Ah, for them, then."
She hunched beneath him, her muscles tense with fear, quivering with want. She was exposed and vulnerable in a way that went deeper than her nudity. She didn't want to share these things with him, but there was something innately comforting about it. These secrets didn't matter to him. He wouldn't judge her for them as her friends or family would. There was a type of freedom in unburdening yourself to the enemy. He would take the secrets to the grave, whether that grave be hers or his.
"My mother still thinks there's a husband and children in my future. That I will grow to a ripe old age," she paused, contemplating. "Angel left me so I could have a chance at normal."
"He left you 'cause he couldn't have you." Spike sucked the wound at her wrist like it was a lemon after a tequila shot. Pain burned through her veins and she whimpered. He cringed as his chip sparked. Immediately, he soothed her with his mouth, seeking forgiveness for his slight with the narrow tip of his tongue.
"Maybe. I've never really understood. I mean on a logical level I get it, but-" Her voice ended sadly, snuffed out in the half darkness.
"Love isn't logical. It's passion and craziness. It's blood."
Spike's words had an eerie echo of her own. She told Willow that she thought love and violence were somehow connected. That there had to be passion in a relationship or the spark would burn out. After the Thy Will Be Done spell she claimed to have changed her mind, but it wasn't completely true. Passion was life. Blood was life. She still believed it in her heart, especially when the blood began to roar in her ears, and the age old calls of want and need soaked her panties.
"My friends started planning their futures. Xander to the army, Willow to college, and I didn't want to be left behind. I wanted to fit in."
"Slayer, if you spend all your time trying to fit into everyone else's lives you'll never have one of your own."
"Maybe, but my life has no future. If I allowed myself to be left behind I would die at a standstill. Besides, it's better than being alone."
Spike couldn't argue logic like that. He wouldn't be in this bleedin' mess if he hadn't been alone. He would have been running free with all the other lions, tigers and bears, not participating in Dorothy's catch, severely fuck with, and release program. This conversation wasn't going as it should. This was plunging deeper than some superficial sexual conditioning. Intimacies were being exchanged that he was less than comfortable with. Better to end the conversation now. She was close. All she needed was a little push. He scooped his hand under her breast, tweaking her pearled nipple between his fingers. He latched his lips on the last remaining wound on her arm, thrusting his cock between the cleft of her ass cheeks. She rocked back onto him, moaning and writhing.
Her mind was a whirlwind, spinning and twisting around a central thought she couldn't seem to purge regardless of how the pleasure tried to swamp it. Spike felt so hard and cool against her back. His long length covering hers, a bulwark against the world, shielding her frailties. His jeans scraped against the raw wounds on her hips and she whimpered in discontent, but couldn't stop arching back to meet his thrusts. His fingers pinched her nipple and heat shot to her clit. She wanted to give over to the pleasure, but her thoughts intruded, begging to be purged from her mind.
"I just want to be normal," she gasped, tears dripping onto the coverlet. "I just want things to be better."
"Shss. The Big Bad's here now. Gonna make it all better for you, luv."
She pressed her face into the coverlet as she came. Her tears were hot and wet, soaking the blanket beneath her. He didn't understand. How could he? How could he understand that all she wanted was what she was promised as a little girl? A family, a future. A better life than the one she was living.
tbc