She’s naked on my floor, cross-legged, hair mussed around her face, skin flushed a pretty pink, a bit like rose petals. Her nipples are still hard and dark in the candlelight, cunt still wet with our come. The scent of our sex hangs in the air.
She’s staring at the crypt wall, following the cracks in the cement with her eyes. Or, at least, that’s what I think she’s doing. Not like she tells me what’s going on in that head of hers.
I can see bruises on her hips in the shape of my hands. She begged me to do it hard and fast, to hit her as I was inside her, drive into her with all the strength I have. I bit her with blunt teeth, marked her inside and out. She begged me to make it hurt as I bent her over a gravestone, rough granite digging into her belly, her skirt above her waist, panties torn away and shoved in my pocket to add to my collection.
My Buffy collection: not as important to me now as it used to be. Added to bit by bit last year, abandoned after she discovered it, rebuilt again piece by piece when she died. It was different kind of shrine, then, in those one hundred and forty-seven days. A shrine of reverence, of memory, not of pointless obsession and demented desire and bloody hell, she’s looking at me now.
She can tell when my thoughts get too deep, too deep for her, anyway. She can tell when my mind turns to the romantic, the reflective. Usually, she knows just how to drive those thoughts away. She appeals to my demon, my lust, my love of violence. Tries to push away my love for her by taunting me, hitting me, making me hurt. Inside and out.
Ten feet away and I’m hard already. Just being in her presence is all it takes. I’m always watching her, sick and twisted as I am, or so she says. On patrol, in the magic shop, outside her job, her home. I can’t stay away because the one time I’m gone will be the one time she needs me. Calls for me.
And, if I’m not there? She’ll never try again.
And I’ll be lost.
My Slayer stands and heads toward me purposefully with fire in those eyes. She climbs on the bed and engulfs my cock in her hot mouth before I can even blink. I gasp her name and drop my hands to gently caress her shorn, golden locks. She bats them away as her mouth works me over. She has no time for gentleness.
Sucking with the power of her calling, her tiny tongue licks me into a frenzy. Up and down, up and down, one hand on my balls, the other scraping my stomach, drawing blood from my dead flesh with her nails.
Fucking hell, she’s good. I can feel shivers starting in my balls and working their way over my body. Can feel the sharp pain that means I’m sucking too much air into my useless lungs.
Bliss.
I reach for her again, wanting to rub those always-hard nipples, wanting to bring her the pleasure she brings me. She slaps my hand, harder this time, and the familiar flickers of annoyance start again. I’m not one to be scolded, not a child she can brush aside. She’s toeing a fine line, and I’m sure she knows it.
I’m on fire already, fire from her mouth on my prick, fire from our earlier violent fuck in the graveyard, and our second go on this very bed. Her little display of dominance heats me up even more, turns me on and pisses me off. I like her when she’s in charge, sure, like that she rivals my power, but not like this. Not when she’s just trying to prove something, trying to distract me, trying to ignore me. Not when she doesn’t give a shit if I’m feeling good.
I growl and she glances up at me, smirking around the head of my cock. God, she’s an exquisite little vixen. But pissing me off still.
That infernal smirk widens as I murmur a warning.
She taunts me with her defiance. She rolls her eyes at my glare.
That’s it. I shift one leg and hook it around her body, flip her on her back and pounce on top of her, stealing her smug grin and pasting it on my own face. She kicks at me, not enjoying the turn her game has taken, a petulant little pout on those lips I dream about. I use my thighs to keep her still and pin her arms above her head, allowing her to wiggle as much as she wants. But she’s not going anywhere.
Not unless she starts using that Slayer strength, and she won’t. That’s not part of this, not today. She doesn’t really want to escape, doesn’t really want to give up what I’m offering.
Her struggles cease, her body goes limp beneath mine, but she’s still brassed off, and her glare lets me know she’s just tolerating me for now. She’s waiting for me to make my move.
I squeeze her wrists tightly above her head, commanding her to keep them there as my lips are drawn to a drop of sweat between her breasts. It’s salty and bitter, but sweet because it’s hers. I imagine her tears would taste something like this, yet softer somehow. More delicate. Not that she would ever let me taste those.
She wriggles beneath me and demands I touch her. I’m hard and she’s wet, which is about all she thinks we need for a fuck. Wrong.
My lips move towards one dark, pink nipple and suckle it gently before shocking her with a rough bite. She gasps and her hands curl into fists, but she doesn’t move.
She can be so obedient when she wants to be. Which is rare, and always has been.
I move to the other tit, giving it the same attention as I slide my hands down her smooth, silky skin. My palms are rough against that delicate flesh, grabby and possessive, as always. It’s not like she minds.
I need to ground myself in the present when I’m with her. Clutch at her, inhale her, swallow her. Memorize her. I worry that each time she says it’s over, she really means it. Worry it’s the last time I’ll lick her essence off my fingers, the last time I’ll bury myself in the sweetest place I’ve ever known.
Of course, she always comes back. She’s indecisive like that.
I move my mouth down, circling her belly button with my tongue, soothing the fading bruises with gentle kisses, tickling her inner thigh with my cool breath.
She complains, wants me to just get on with it, but I refuse. This is my bed. And when she’s in it, I’m in charge. Out there, outside, I’m her soddin’ lap dog, panting and begging for a scrap of affection, ready to do her bidding, whatever it is. She can order me around, do what she pleases. But not here.
I don’t waste another second and bury my face between her thighs. It’s my favorite place to be, really. She tastes like sin and sweetness, and begs for it so prettily. There are times I don’t even need to touch myself. I come just with her taste on my tongue.
First time I tasted her, she protested. Loudly. Tried to push me away, offered up lots of little nasties to try and distract me. But I wouldn’t give in. And I finally twigged to the fact that no one had done this for her before. She didn’t want me to be her first. Well, too fucking bad. She got over it.
We’ve racked up quite a few firsts since then. I fucked her little virgin ass one night, eased her into it with my fingers and whispered how good I could make it. Only that one time, but she’ll let me do it again, I know.
I’ve had her outside. That was a first for her too. She likes that now, likes the thrill of getting caught, likes the way it makes her feel. Animalistic.
Sure, I didn’t get the firsts that mattered. Wasn’t her first love, didn’t take her maidenhead. But I cherish whatever she’ll give me.
I lick her slowly at first, just savoring the taste, spreading her juices from top to bottom. Avoiding her clit, I pay special attention to that dark little rosebud. She stiffens at first, but with a little coaxing she calms, spreads her legs wider, clutches tight to the headboard.
She’s only so willing because she knows she can stop me if she wants to. And she knows I’ll make it worth her while.
Soon she’s squirming against my tongue and needs more than just gentle licks and teasing caresses. I slide two fingers into her channel, marveling at the heat I find there. Even after hours of fucking, she’s always so snug, so soft and warm. Each time I enter her it’s like a revelation.
I pump my fingers in and out of her slowly when I finally pay attention to that needy little clit. She moans her approval. Quickly, not giving her time to tighten up again, I take one wet finger and slip it inside her asshole.
She moans louder now, not even pretending she doesn’t like it, delicate hands flying down to pull at my hair. I add the second finger, stretch her wide, shoving my tongue inside her and lick every inch. If I could, I’d crawl up inside her, make myself at home there, and never leave. If she’d let me.
Babbled pleas for more rain down around me, music to my ears. I make her come like this, make her scream my name, make her drench my face and my hands in that taste I relish more than anything. Better than beer, better than blood. It’s Buffy. I grind my hips into the silky sheets as she quivers under my tongue, around my fingers. It’s not enough friction, but at least the pressure keeps me from going insane with need.
When she’s coming down, delirious with lust and distracted, I reach into the drawer and fish out the oil I nicked from the magic shop, coating my cock well before slipping my hand between her thighs and slicking her asshole inside and out. She doesn’t protest.
I settle myself above her and position myself at the entrance to the place I never thought I’d get to be. In my wildest fantasies, in my most elaborate dreams, this was the one thing I thought was truly out of reach. I still remember ever detail of that first time, every breath and sigh and moan. The promise of doing it again gets my cock so hard I feel like I’ll explode before I even get inside of her.
I slowly slide into her ass, gritting my teeth, push in as her body tries to push me out. But as soon I’m fully seated, my eyes roll back in my head, my arms shake as I hold myself above her and there is nothing in the world that feels like this. So bloody tight I feel like I’m about to pop, boiling hot and softer than anything I’ve ever felt.
She digs her nails into my shoulders, bites her lip hard and breathes heavily through her nose like she’s trying to suppress her sounds of pleasure. We can’t have that, can we? I need to hear that she loves this, the way I make her feel. At least I should get that, if nothing else.
I move slowly at first, giving her time to adjust, giving myself time to calm down, then finally let go, fucking her hard with all I’ve got.
I’m drowning under the weight of it, the weight of her. In a way, it feels like my death all over again, like pain and pleasure and endings and beginnings and finally she’s crying out. Nasty little cries, naughty little words that I always knew were deep inside her.
My girl’s got a dirty mind, even if she won’t admit it.
Her body grips me, chokes me. I lean down and kiss her hard, biting and licking at her lips until she opens up for my tongue. This is what we started with: raw, passionate kisses that she tried to ignore, but now that she lets me inside her, there are less and less of them. And nearly always, I’m the one who starts them.
I reluctantly pull my mouth away and slide my hand down to her cunt, slipping two fingers inside as I rub at her clit with my thumb. She arches up toward my touch, letting loose a hoarse groan. Then I feel her tighten even more around me and she comes.
I watch her. Watch the way her pupils dilate, until there’s just a bright ring of green, watch the way sweat appears on her upper lip and forehead, glistening little droplets that I lean down and lick off. Her lips part and she releases a silent cry, but when I speed up and fuck her harder, seeking my own release, that cry becomes audible and I shiver at the sound. It is raw, guttural, pure primal pleasure and it sets me off.
I shoot inside her and choke on the three words I always want to say when I come. I did, once, and she punched me, pushed me right off her while I was still shooting my load. The sight of it spurting on the sheets was bloody depressing.
Not this time. I strangle my unwanted confessions of love and groan out my pleasure, eyes still wide and soaking in the way she stares up at me, sated, a lazy smile on her face.
I love it when she smiles.
I tell her she doesn’t have to go, but that just makes her get dressed quicker, legs unsteady. Before she puts on her skirt, I can see my come dripping out of her ass.
She starts ranting.
I don’t even really listen anymore.
She lists the standard reasons for why this will never happen again, curses me and herself, all bluster and bloody annoying smart remarks that make me want to smack her tight arse until she apologizes.
Maybe later. When she comes back.
If she comes back.
She climbs the ladder without a backwards glance. I can hear her footsteps, quick and light, and then the door to my crypt bangs shut.
She’s gone.
And I am lost again.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to ClawofCat and Tanit for being superawesomebetas.