I’ve wanted her for so long that I can barely believe it when she comes to me, her glorious arms held defensively against her chest and a bitter smile broken by her friends.
I relish wiping it from her face.
Either through kisses, which often are rejected or by sheer savagery which she welcomes, I tear cries of passion and whispered desires into the open air. They ring out in the otherwise dead silence of my crypt, filling it with a life stolen and thus that much more precious. Her heart begins to beat faster and I tap it into her skin. Her blood rushes quick enough for both of us, sustaining what is left of my persona and feeding her blatant death wish. She comes to me to dance. To lose herself in the only rhythm available to us when lines have become so blurred that she touches a monster. If I had more courage and masochism I’d tell her that. Show her how dark the play has become and ask for a new part, the role of saviour or confidant. Anything else but a prop.
I never will though. I love her too much and cannot help but take anything that she offers. Even if it is only in the dark.
My nostrils flare at the (imagined?) scent of heavy wet earth still lingering underneath her nails. No matter where she is I can smell her, an odd sense of connection pulling me in her direction. She has come back as something other than human. Not fully one of her precious Scoobies but not a monster like me either. She balances in the space between.
When will she fall?
Tonight she questions me first, asking about my mother and days as a man. Her eyes, a feverish hazel seem to glimmer, short locks swaying and creating a desperate mood. Perhaps she is trying to resurrect some essence of William, hoping it will pardon her trespass into my crypt. Her cheeks turn a blooming red, demanding and pleading to know who I was. What I was. I shudder at the thought.
William was weaker than I am now. Poncy curls of brown and spectacles fit for an old maid had been his forefront against the British upper class. As if any of those fools ever made a real difference. He spent his time in a dark study listening to the hacking coughs of a dying little sister or later that of his mother, forced to suffer from consumption. The quill was the one tool he tried to use, hoping that it would draw a line and lead to something outside of the normal existence. Perhaps even to love. The thick ringlets of Cecily, so easily captured in ink had been his one desire, the golden thread in the labyrinth. William had trekked down into the dark maze, hoping for valor and convoluted sense of affection and instead met his future: a twisted creation neither man nor animal.
I wonder if William knew Drusilla would be the turning point, the result of the thread if you will, in what was a rather sorry turn of sodding events.
I doubt he would.
Instead of focusing on the palpable warnings he wasted time on pathetic sonnets and pentameters. Struggling and biting his lip in an attempt to write something of beauty, he wasted his life away.
I am only stronger because I recognise it, accept it and can admit that I am Love’s bitch. The twisted Minotaur, broken by a woman and locked away by a chip.
I tell her nothing of this though. Already her eyes have changed to one of haunting intensity, caressing my chest and begging to feel something, anything at all.
It kills her to know that a dead man can bring her to life.
I pull her into my arms, adding a punishing grip when she begins to squirm. It is the only way I am allowed to hold her. Anything more loving would be unacceptable. She barely reaches my chest, her hot breath scalding through my shirt and making the entire crypt want to burn. I have always felt like I am touching both heaven and hell for the sheer intensity of her touch. It burns and eats away at the fabric of my being, making me neither monster nor man.
My demon growls at this thought and if anything her breath grows heavier, pants of desire interrupting. He abhors the notion that we are mortal if not in body then in thought. It stinks of my poofterish grandsire and is nothing that he wishes to be involved in. He curls inside the cavity of my chest, purring audibly when the Slayer tears my shirt open.
He loves her like this.
Since the chip ruined me, dancing has lost its gleam and intimacy. The slightest thought of bloodshed and I am reduced to a wailing puppy, unable to bite or even bark at those who beat me. Dru would be laughing to know that I have accepted her name of a dog. Bloody sire would think it was retribution for ‘turning away from Princess’. I release the Slayer from my grip, noting the way she smiles as she rubs the marks on her arms.
She is only thing I can hurt. The only woman I can love and the one creature who dominates me utterly.
The next moment she stabs her tongue down my throat. I respond similarly, tearing her shirt apart and flinging off her bra in quick succession. She still stands in a short skirt and leather boots which travel up to her knee. I curl my tongue behind my teeth at the sight. I’ll be damned if I know how she slays in those pumps. She shivers at my glance and then shimmies out of the skirt, pushing my fingers into her panties. If anything she smiles more.
Her hair has been cut short, robbing me of the smell of vanilla and pure Slayer which even in my Big Bad days I adored. They swing in the air, tinged with the rays of sunlight and a reminder of everything she could have. With the right bloke she could create another darling little girl. Beautiful with sun kissed locks and skin soft and unmarred. I can imagine the stars which would gleam in those eyes, but in my world they would be crystal blue. An odd thought or desire, purely because I know I was a monster. It is there within me, purring, clawing, and hungry for the rich taste of human blood and I can’t banish it. Refuse to. It was what made me become something more than William, and as badly as the bleeding plan turned out it has given me this: a writhing, wanton woman pushing my fingers into her body in quick sharp movements with only a scrap of lace to cover herself. The price of those blue eyes is a difficult one to pay for the sight; particularly when I know such an arrival would awaken the Slayer and raise her from the emotionally dead.
I brush the thoughts away burying myself in her locks. My fingers desperately rake through her hair, turning the strands of gold into knots in order to tangle myself in her embrace; to become locked in some part of her.
She thankfully allows it, pushing two fingers deep inside of her again and again, crying out at the invasion. Her flesh is hot and wet and soaks into my palm. My demon purrs that much louder, knowing full well that no matter how many times I wash, the scent of her pleasure will remain on my fingers… covering me.
Her heart, thumping madly, grows frenzied when I lift her into the air and then bend her over the side of a sarcophagus. Her ass tempts me, fingers curling around the thong and ripping it away. She hasn’t come here to be loved by a man but instead by an animal. I oblige her request.
My jeans are easy to undo, the top button making a satisfying pop which leaves both of us panting in anticipation. I pull my legs out of the pants and stand just behind her, not touching but close enough to send thrills up her spine.
The Slayer shudders.
For the first time she says my name, a husky undertone flowing out through the two syllables. The sound of it causes my demon to arch and groan, both of us desperate to carry her off to bed and make the chit stay there. She calls out my name again, a note of hesitation tingeing it.
“Spike?”
My hand soothingly runs down her spine, one finger dipping along the bones. “I’m here luv,” My voice has become nothing more than a deep growl, primal with the desire to make her mine. Love her as though she was my mate. My other hand grasps her thigh, kneading the pure muscle and loving the way it ripples underneath my grip. She was made for me, a mortal man unable to control her passions or her cravings. The tin soldier was a fool for thinking that he could.
She steadily becomes more insistent, pushing back into my cock and rubbing herself against it in abandon. I wait one more time for the sound of my name, and then bury myself to the hilt inside.
Dear gods.
Immediately my eyes roll back, the feeling of intense heat something that I’m sure no stint in hell could compare to. Her quim stretches and pulses around me, making my blood boil and a thousand thoughts dissolve. All there is her. Glorious, effulgent Buffy, burning me into oblivion. The taste of ash would never be so pleasant in any other scenario.
Her hips begin to move and I lose myself in her. She scorches the length of me, her body causing an ache to fill my frame which entrances my demon. He has melded himself with her also, pushing at my control and wanting the fangs to become free. My gums itch in betrayal and I have to slow my thrusts to remain in manage the intense feeling of need and belonging. He wants her to be ours.
The Slayer not sensing my internal dilemma, pushes back harder, demanding more in throaty calls which shove aside our argument. Her back is slightly pink, scratches from my nails leaving small welts. I answer her orders and resume a punishing pace.
All too quickly, the momentum carries me along till I am screaming her name, whispering dirty words into the back of her ear. The sound of flesh grinding and smashing against each other echoes, dragged out by mutual cries. My fangs inch downwards, the demon salivating and desperate to be joined with her. He pushes me further asking the Slayer in the throes of her passion whether she needs me (needs us).
Her nodding head, golden curls messy and covering her face, is all it takes to convince me. I lick the side of her neck in long lathes, brushing the tips of my fangs so blood appears near the surface.
“Yes.”
The piercing of skin is close to the taking of a woman, draining her essence in one moment of exquisite connection. There is no way of being more close to someone then tasting what moves them, keeps them alive. The rush of her boiling blood down my throat was an epiphany.
All of her lingering pain was like residue floating along its surface, Joyce, Rupert, the Scoobies all covering her essence. Below those weights remained the poignant taste of Slayer, demonic and pure in its pursuit for control and prey. My Buffy intermingled between the two, the one cohesive unit that made her still breathe, even after her departure from heaven.
I wanted her and I took her.
The word “Mine” came out harsh and grating, a connection snapping in place like the thread between Theseus’ fingers. Her cries flowed in abandon at the noticeable link, shuddering under its intensity as my emotions made themselves known. I withdrew my fangs, pulling out with regret. Any minute now she would have me on my back, clutching a bloody nose or worse joining the dust which littered the crypt.
My demon, relishing finally his chance to touch her in the only way an animal could, continued to mutter to itself gloatingly. It was in a haze of contentment, not noticing the dead quiet which held as the Slayer’s body came down from its orgasmic high.
“Pet? Are you alright?” I bit my lip, unconsciously licking at the blood which coated it like fine wine. She had enjoyed it as much as I had but the claiming well… I’m perfect for buggering things up.
“Buffy?”
The Slayer, naked as the day she was born, slowly turned to face me in nothing but a pair of leather boots. Her body was flushed with the effort of our coupling, the mark of my bite transparent from where I stood. It completely covered Angelus’ smear, obliterating the poofter’s pathetic bite and marking her completely as mine.
The demon howled in triumph.
She opened her mouth as though to say something, before snatching up her ruined clothes. Her movements were hasty and erratic, the skirt sliding down her hips as she tried to button it. I stepped forward and did them for her, brushing her hair out of hazel eyes which stung with tears. My fear, tanglible in the crypt was swallowed with a loud gulp.
“Buffy…”
A hand halted my words. She was shaking uncontrollably now, both our emotions washing the claim and overflowing uncontrollably. The Slayer was having her own epiphany. Fingers, lithe and dangerous, grasped my cheek, raking the skin and causing trails to flourish. I sighed in acceptance.
I had ruined everything; forced her from her safe hold and into the reality of this affair. I had made her see something besides the monster. Now she was forced to peer at William.
I couldn't help the bitter smirk from tugging at my lips as her hazel eyes widened, if possible even more.
“Does this answer your questions pet?”
The slap across my chest was the only warning I had of her departure. My head smashed against the ground, giving me a perfect view of the Slayer and her fleeing form, running desperately from my crypt.
It was an all too familiar sight. Buffy was a metaphorical William running from the image of his future.
Me.
Author's Chapter Notes:
what do you think? badly written?