Hello, fan fiction writers of the world! I've been reading your work for a while now, and I gotta say it's been very interesting. I'm no literary expert - I leave that sort of thing to my significant other - but even I can tell that although a ton of crappy writing has been inflicted on an unsuspecting public, there are also an awful lot of really good, exciting, creative and well-written stories out there as well. They more than balance out the dreck.
Some of them are actually pretty accurate. I oughta know.
Oh, didn't I introduce myself? Sorry about that!
I'm Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. One among many, these days.
I'm writing because some of you are obviously operating under a serious misconception that I feel obligated to correct. (And no, I'm not talking about the strangely pervasive inaccuracies regarding Dawn's eye color [they're BLUE, okay?]).
It's about Spike.
Before you ask - yes, he survived Angel's ill-conceived Butch-and-Sundance reenactment, but that's another story. And he's with me. Very happily so, mostly. Contrary to what some of you think, it's not all puppies and Christmas all the time.
Back to my point.
A lot of you writers believe that Spike is some kind of love god come to Earth, who always knows exactly what his partner wants at all times and unfailingly delivers without a hitch. According to you, he's the Undisputed Sexual Champion of the Universe, the supreme expert in all forms and moods and techniques, from missionary to doggie, sweet to rough, raunchy to tender, and all points and positions in between. Why, he's the maven of hotitude, the absolute last word, the Emperor of Orgasms! Dr. Ruth? Hah. Sue Johansson? Please! Masters and Johnson, you did your research with the wrong subject. Should've gone to Spike instead, who knows all, sees all, and does all, better than anyone ever has or ever will, forever and ever Amen!
Sigh.
Take it from one who knows, kids: That's a load of bull.
Oooh, I can hear your indignant squealing, the vehement protests of denial! (Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, so zip it already.) You're certain that I'm once again being a bitch to my poor devoted lust-slave Spike, who loves me so unselfishly and always sees to my needs first with little or no consideration for his own. I'm not saying our sex life isn't amazing, because it so is, on many levels. But it's not the guaranteed trip to Ultimate Happy Land that you seem to think it is, because Spike isn't Mr. Perfect Lover all the time. And neither am I.
Don't worry. I'm not about to kick him to the curb because he doesn't turn me into a quivering mass of thoroughly sated jelly every time he touches me. He's way too important to me to give up just for that.
But yes, even Spike has had that quite embarrassing guy-thing happen to him. There's a kinda crude euphemism for it, if I could just remember...
Oh, yeah.
Spike has - on very rare occasions, mind you - "popped the clutch."
Ahem. You know what I mean.
Ouch! I can heard your preconceptions crashing to earth all the way over here! Your graven images of Spike the Love Icon are crumbling to dust! How could I DO such a thing?
Actually, it's probably for the best. Spike's ego might be fragile in certain places, but it's plenty big enough already, without your puffing him up. And when it needs a little bolstering, well, that's what I'm here for.
To be fair, I admit that the only times this Awful Thing has occurred were just after one of us got over being mad at the other and we were, uh, reconciling. Spike's pretty hard-wired sexually, so when he goes without for a while (i.e., more than a day or so), he's all fired up and rarin' to go, and sometimes he just loses himself in the moment and, um, arrives before I do.
At that moment, yeah, it's a little disappointing. But in retrospect, it's kinda sweet (and hot) to know that your guy wants you so much that he just can't hold back. Especially when that guy is a 150-year-old vampire with loads of experience - and you're the one he loses control with.
And it's really not such a hardship for us. Because vampire refractory time? Practically nonexistent. (*g*)
Usually I'm not big on sharing confidences - some people have actually called me secretive and emotionally closed-off, can you imagine? - but I suspect you want some anecdote as proof so you'll believe me on this. There aren't that many to choose from, really...
...so I guess the first time is as good as any.
It was a few weeks after we first started having sex, several months after my resurrection. For about a week I'd avoided Spike as much as I could, because - well - there's sort of this unspoken rule that nice girls don't have sex at that time of the month because it's severely ooksome, and back then, the very idea majorly squicked me too. So I'd made a point to spend as little time in Spike's company as possible - and made sure I was never alone with him.
These were necessary precautions. If I hadn't taken them, I'd forget all that nice-girl indoctrination and jump his bones as I desperately wanted to do.
I was completely bewildered by that reaction. I'd never before felt the least bit sensual during my period, nor interested in sex in any way. Even if I had felt that way, my previous boyfriends' predictable reactions would have stomped it out right quick. Riley was typical American guy about it, red-faced and hands-off avoidy till it was all over. And Angel - well, he just stayed clear of me altogether, every month, as I was doing with Spike. Unless some big baddie was on the prowl and he HAD to spend time with me; in which case, he very pointedly did not breathe while in my presence, except to speak.
But with Spike, a very large part of me didn't care. I wanted him, all the time, every moment of every day. And I knew he wanted me just as I was, even without the blood thing. So of course it had to be wrong, just part and parcel of the greater wrongness that was Buffy-and-Spike, and I forced myself to think of it that way, and denied myself what I really wanted.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Well, I wasn't totally absent from Spike during that time, because we still saw each other at the Magic Box or on patrol, so that adage didn't apply. But I will tell you this: Abstinence drove Spike absolutely crazy.
And the idiot (I say that fondly, now) just tortured himself, made it waaay more difficult than it had to be. It irritated me no end, because seeing him struggle with it wasn't any joy for me either. But I couldn't stop him from breathing every time he was within ten yards of me.
And not just breathing quietly through his nose like you and I involuntarily do to stay alive. This was ostentatious, full-out sniffing (though not loudly enough to upset Xander), and occasionally he'd open his mouth slightly like he was actually tasting my scent, the way a lion draws its prey's scent over its Jacobsen's Organ. And his eyes would burn like the blue heart of flame, scorching me and setting my nerves sizzling for his touch.
At cycle's end, I was just as desperate for him as he was for me. I rushed over to his crypt as soon as I could.
I'd barely set foot inside when he was all over me. And I mean, All. Over. Me. Mouth hard and angry on mine, alternately kissing, biting, muttering: "Heartless bint - denying me - smelling like that - wanted to drink you down, suck your pretty quim for days, and you stayed away -" making it sound like it was the worst crime ever committed. Reeling in the joy of his hands and mouth on me, at that moment I felt like it was, too.
His hand swept under my skirt and plunged into my panties, thrusting two fingers inside me. Twist, rub, circle in just the right way so I was gasping into his mouth and clutching at him - and then he pulled out and tore his lips from mine to lick his fingers clean. I watched, breathless, as he closed his eyes in rapture at the flavor, then turned a wild, smoldering gaze on me.
He - what he'd done - was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. I was positively panting for him then.
"Can still taste it on you," he moaned deliriously, tearing at my panties while I wrestled with his fly buttons and reached inside, drawing him out, long and iron-hard, throbbing in my hand. He groaned, shuddering, as I stroked him, then pulled himself away to lift me off my feet. I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling his cock nestle wantonly in the cleft of my ass, his pubic hair scratching and tickling at my nether lips as we kissed like hurricanes, tongues lashing and wrangling. We moaned and clutched at each other as if we could not get close enough fast enough, and with somewhat unsteady steps, he turned us toward the ladder to the basement of his crypt.
Desperate for more contact I tore his shirt off his body, ran my hands over the smoothness of his shoulders and chest. When I scraped my thumbnails across his nipples, that was it - he halted, muttered "Fuck it" into my mouth, and dropped to his knees, all but slamming me onto my back, and slid into me with one hard thrust.
We went at it like animals in rut, right there on the hard cement floor of his crypt, among the dust bunnies and cigarette butts, directly in front of the barely-fastened door that anyone could have walked through. And neither one of us gave a damn, because it felt so incredibly good, so right, to be joined again in this wild crazy passion after what felt like months of deprivation. He pounded into me fiercely, harder than anyone ever had before, and oh, it hurt.
Yeah. It hurt real good, to steal a lyric.
Obviously, for Spike, a little too good. I was pretty revved up and not far from the edge myself, but I was stunned to awareness when I felt him let go with a hoarse shout that seemed torn from the depths of him. I stopped moving and looked up at him to see the same shock on his face, quickly followed by annoyance and yeah, embarrassment. He pulled out with a disgusted, "Bloody hell," tumbled off me and settled on his back, staring rigidly at the crypt's cobwebbed ceiling, looking so human in that moment that I almost forgot he wasn't.
Now, if he was Riley, I would've comforted him, held him in my arms and assured him it was all right. I'd had some practice doing that and had gotten pretty good at it. Then after he fell asleep I'd slip out of bed, tiptoe to the bathroom and finish what he couldn't. I'd gotten pretty good at that, too.
But this was Spike, the notorious vampire I was supposed to hate and certainly should never have touched. Plus, I was disappointed, and more than a little irritated by being all dressed up with noplace to go, so to speak. So I did the one thing a woman should never, ever do to her lover at such a moment.
I laughed at him.
Not a sweet supportive-girlfriend chuckle, either. More like a harsh croak, brittle and cold. "Whatsamatter, Spikey?" I rolled onto my side and lifted up on my elbow, sneering down at him. "Can't keep it up for the Slayer anymore?" I prodded his flaccid penis a few times, giggling contemptuously.
He didn't answer, or even look at me. The only sign that he'd heard me was the further tightening of his jaw as if he was gritting his teeth hard enough to grind them to powder, the cords of his neck standing out taut and distinct. Even shamed as he was, his beauty was intoxicating. Not that I could admit that, at the time.
Impatiently I waited a few more minutes; when I got no response, I huffed crossly and sat up to look for my panties, see if they were still wearable. Quick as a snake his hand shot out and clamped on my wrist, jerking me back down so I sprawled on him for a split second before he rolled me beneath him again, eyes blazing down into mine.
"You're not going anywhere, Slayer," he growled.
I hate to admit it, but I actually felt a shiver of real fear at that. He looked so angry and determined, I thought he might really hurt me, and not in that good way. Something of my anxiety must have communicated itself to him, because although his expression didn't soften in the least, his body relaxed on mine, lifting slightly away so I didn't feel trapped, and his voice eased to a rough purr. "Nowhere near done with you, love." The low, criminally sexy tone made me shiver again, for a completely different reason.
"'S'all your fault, y'know" he murmured against my neck, nipping and sucking while his hands slid over me. I don't know what it is about him, but his touch just overwhelms me. It's so intense, you know? Possessive...and purposeful. All I knew at that moment, though, was that somehow I'd stumbled onto the perfect remedy for Spike's little mishap:
I'd challenged him. It is utterly impossible for Spike to resist a challenge.
So I just kept on doing it, saw his eyes spark and glitter with genuine amusement as we traded snark for snark. After a while, though, I found it awfully hard to form words as he sought out and located all those good places, some I knew and a few I wasn't aware of until then. Like the back of my knee? Who knew? He was nuzzling and licking at my breasts, a more conventional but always effective erogenous zone, when I managed (barely): "You must be - [gasp] - really afraid of (ohgod) - leaving me wanting -"
His lips released my nipple with a soft plop and he glared at me, but instead of snapping off another retort, he smirked and slid his hand down my abdomen and between my legs. His fingers penetrated and receded, circled and pinched, as he watched with tongue curled behind teeth, clearly enjoying the show. Then suddenly, without warning, he probed at a deliciously itchy spot inside me while his thumb pressed down hard, right there. And - wow. It felt like lightning striking a deep-seated pleasure button inside me, setting it off then ricocheting back out to his thumb, seeking more contact. He kept rubbing slowly and firmly, thumb and fingers creating a seemingly endless loop of quivery sparks, stimulation and feedback. By then I was drawing in loud wheezing breaths through my mouth, growing wetter and hotter with every passing second, and wondering with the tiny scrap of brainpower left to me - My god, how does he do that? And would he please not ever stop?
But of course, he did. Just when I was almost there, the bastard! I started to whimper in protest but let it dissolve into a moan when he pushed into me again, cool against my superheated flesh, strong and hard as stone.
Nothing, no one, had ever felt so good.
"No," he purred, thrusting slowly, "'M'not afraid at all." He kissed me softly, with delicate little tongue touches to the corners of my lips. His fingers wove into my hair and he looked down at me with his whole heart in his eyes, so beautiful I almost wanted to cry.
"Spike - please -" I dug my nails into his back and he growled with pleasure, began moving faster, stronger.
"Don't worry, Buffy," he whispered, "I'll always take care of you." Then he swiveled his hips in a way that has to be illegal in several states, and that was all she wrote.
You know all those silly sex cliches you writers like to throw around, stars bursting and waves crashing and the heavens singing for joy?
They are Not. Even. Close.
That day, I did something I'd never done before. I warbled. Really. I'm not usually vocal, but right then I was like a bird singing hello to the morning at the top of its lungs. And afterwards, well, I was one quivering mass of thoroughly sated goo. Jello a la Spike.
Hmm.
Looking back over this, I guess maybe you writers have a point about Spike after all. He still has his less-than-ideal moments, like what I just told you about, or he'll hurry too much, or say or do weird off-putting things, or have total crap for timing when to get his groove on. Just like any other guy.
Thing is about Spike, he's really, really good at making up for it.
Okay, True Confessions is over.
You can write your fantasies however you please, of course. Continue to portray Spike as the Ever-Perfect Energizer Bunny of Sex, if you want, even though you're better informed now. I really don't mind.
Because they're just fantasies, after all. And I've got the real thing.
(hee!)
