Unlife was bloody good tonight, Spike thought as he ducked the fledgling’s punch, used the attempted blow to get the other vampire turned around then tore it’s head off with his bare hands.
He could still feel Buffy’s blood running through his body, supercharging ever cell of his being and practically making him vibrate with a new kind of power. He’d only taken a sip, just enough to fulfill her request for a bite and satisfy his craving for a taste, but her being the slayer made even that as potent as draining every ounce of the ruby red from a normal human.
Leaving behind the dusty remnants of the fanged young man he’d found rising from it’s grave on a sweep of the cemetery Spike continued to search the darkened grounds for more things to kill, more ways to work off all this bloody energy.
A little devil was whispering in his ear to go back to the source of that energy and shag her until neither of them could walk for days, but he was definitely waiting for her to make the next move.
She needed it.
Wasn’t a return of the love he felt, but as a lot of that love was need for him too, it was a bloody victory for him to hear that much from her lips.
Those lips, he felt his cock harden and rise in his jeans and chucked the kill things idea to relieve the tension.
Entering his crypt a few minutes later he fished out his lighter, hopped down to the lower level and lit a few candles to cast some light into the dark chamber. With fond memories at how they got there he sidestepped the broken glass and scattered items on the floor to remove his duster and lay it over the sarcophagus before moving to sit on the bed. He lit a few more candles on the bedside table then removed his boots and black tee.
Leaving his jeans on he settled back on the bed reclining against the headboard and surveying the crypt with a self-satisfied smirk.
When she let go of all her little denials and moral dilemmas, his Buffy truly was an animal. More raw and passionate than he ever would have dreamed.
In his fantasies before actually having her he’d imagined her being a bossy little bit in bed, riding him all hard and angry and controlled because ‘it was wrong’ what they were doing, but not stopping it until he did that ‘popping like warm champagne’ thing she’d boasted she could make him do so long ago. Other dreams had had him controlling her, the whimpering and still somewhat innocent slayer mindless beneath him with desire and obeying his every command until she came screaming his name and her love for him. Most of the fantasies, though, had been of making love to her as he had thought she’d want. All soft candlelight and romantic music and roses and loving kisses and caresses that brought them both to gentle climaxes that seized their bodies slowly and wrung light pants and moans from her lips. Things the bloody poof she still seemed to love so damned much would have done for her.
Reality had been a thousand times sweeter and he carefully opened his jeans to pull out his hard cock and stroke it as the memories began playing in his head. His dry hand encircled the base of his equally dry shaft then moved roughly up to the tip as he remembered sinking into her wet heat the first time.
They’d gone from beating and punishing each other with insults to kissing hard and deep so fast his head had swum with all the things she always made him feel. He remembered just kissing her with all the anger and passion and love and hate he felt for her as he leant back against a wall in that crumbling house with her legs locked around his waist like a vise and his hands filled to overflowing with a hot, writhing Slayer. Then suddenly her hand had somehow worked itself between their tightly pressed bodies to tear open his pants and guide him into her hole with her hot little fingers wrapped around his cock.
He remembered her grunting little breath at feeling him there for the first time, stretching her little cunny wide and deep to take him all. Remembered the unbearably tight clasp of her muscles shuddering along his length as she rode him. Remembered the look in her eyes - the surprise, pleasure, fulfillment, need, fear, uncertainty and, though she may deny forever, love - as she slowly adjusted to his cock then began riding it. Remembered how he had wondered then if he was dreaming, if he’d wake up from the moment calling out her name and his love for her with come soaking his sheets from another vivid, but all too empty fantasy. Remembered kissing her slowly, hesitantly as their bodies easily found a rhythm in moving together that was so bloody natural. Remembered the way her blood had been pumping and racing through her body, just beneath skin he was finally able to touch and taste and it had been the hardest thing he’d ever done to resist the demon inside him that had screamed for him to sink his fangs into that flesh and take that rich hot liquid into his cold body.
He had resisted, though, and his patience had paid off tonight, he thought as his hand spread the precum leaking from his slit over the rest of his cock to speed up his stroking. In his mind the cool lubrication became her hot slick juices coating his length and he began thrusting into his hand harder and harder as he imagined it’s tight grip being her core.
Finally he allowed the newest and most vivid memories to overwhelm him. Her green eyes clear and steady as they looked into his and her soft shining lips tell him that she needs what he gives her. What only he can or will give her. Those lips pressed hard and hungry against his as he drives into her from behind, feeling her half bared ass against him as he greedily takes all she offers. Her letting him do it to her right there in public where they could be caught by her pathetic little friends or a complete stranger who wandered up on the balcony with them and realized what they were doing despite the way he’d tried to conceal their joined bodies from prying eyes with his coat.
“Bite me. Please.”
Shouting out her name now as he had been unable to when she made the request he released himself with rapid, rough jerks of his hand milking the copious liquid from his length, wondered if she realized yet that she had said ‘please’ and remembered the taste of her blood.
Blood she’d given to him. Begged him to take and taste.
Blood that now tied them together in ways his little slayer would duck and cover from, but some day she’d know what it meant. Know that it started a link forming between them that all her denials would never break. Know that she had made the request because she loved him and wanted only him as her mate. Her love.
She’d know it.
And soon.
~*~*~
Alone in her bedroom, in a home that felt so empty even though she and Willow were in it tonight while Dawn slept over at Janice’s, Buffy sat on the edge of her bed wearing her robe and staring at the white shirt in her hands.
How could they not have seen them? she wondered, unable to take her gaze from the two tiny, but glaringly obvious bloodstains on the fabric. Two tiny little dots of blood set about three inches apart. Dots identical to the bite mark on her shoulder that the shirt had been covering to get the stains.
And they hadn’t seen them.
She’d stuck out another hour with them, even joining them on the dance floor and managing a few genuine laughs at her attempts to mimic their goofy dance moves. Sixty minutes for Anya to notice and comment about the bite or the air of satisfaction that always surrounded Buffy after even the coldest, most passionless fucking with Spike like the time in the alley behind that horrible place she worked. 3600 seconds during which Willow and Xander could have – should have – noticed the traces of blood and started with the major wiggins about there being blood on her shirt and how did blood get on her shirt like that and why did that mark responsible for the stain look a lot like a vampire’s bite.
But in all of that time her ‘friends’ hadn’t seen the stains. Just more proof that they didn’t see her anymore.
Why was she fighting so hard to cling to them? To what she’d been before?
All it brought her was pain and uncertainty like she’d never felt before. The inner debate between what she had been before dying and what she was now after being brought back was tearing her in two.
Why was she even bothering?
That Buffy had died. There was still a tombstone in the cemetery that bore the proof of that.
All she got for trying to go back to who she’d been or pretend that that was still her was feelings she didn’t need to deal with. She felt so alone, ashamed, confused, hurt, isolated, cold, guilty and wrong for being the only thing she could be now after having known Heaven and pure peace then been torn from that to come back to … this.
She would never be able to make them understand it.
There was only one person in all that she knew who even had a clue.
Letting the shirt she held fall forgotten to the floor she laid back on the bed and let her thoughts drift to the only place they felt … anything.
Spike.
He had earned that name through acts of pure evil against innocent people who’d been foolish enough to venture into his path while he was letting his demon play. He still earned it by using that demon to take out his own kind. Fighting at her side for so long now she couldn’t remember him not being there with her.
For her.
She remembered his eyes when he realized it was really her walking down the steps that first horrible night back. He’d been stunned and utterly awestruck and the love she’d felt directed toward her still had the power to steal her breath. He hadn’t been happy, though. He’d known, in that very first instant, that things weren’t the same as they had been. That she should have been left wherever fate had taken her after death. He had loved her and part of her had believed it since he first made the declaration, despite the rather obsessive and unhealthy moment he’d chosen. Despite that love, though, unlike the others he had let her go. He’d been the only one to grieve for her, but know and accept that she was really gone.
He’d viewed it as the greatest failure on his part.
Her dying.
“I want you to know I did save you,” she remembered the moment in his crypt would he had confessed that to her. “Not when it counted, of course, but … after that. Every night after that. I’d see it all again do something different. Faster or more clever, you know? Dozens of times, lots of different ways … Every night I save you.”
147 nights he had put himself through that kind of torment, she thought with a tear slipping from the corner of her eyes.
Was it really so wrong to need him?
She raised a hand to brush the moisture from her face and after doing so found the hand unconsciously drifting to her shoulder.
Her first reaction to the feel of the puncture wounds under her fingertips was how stupid she had been, how he so easily could have gone for her jugular and killed her, but that reaction was crushed by the memory of him stating that he could never do that.
The old Buffy inside tried to call her a fool for believing that for a second, but she lacked any real conviction as even she could not deny that he had meant it. He had vowed it and, regardless of the cost to himself, Spike continued to prove that he would keep his promises to her.
She laid there for a long time staring up at the dark ceiling and aching to go to him, but all he’d give her now was the physical release she needed.
She wanted to be able to go to him like she had when she’d first come back. Go to him to just talk and be comforted by his listening or offering some slightly painful truth that made her strike out at him to pretend that the words hadn’t been accurate and just what she needed to hear.
A few kisses that she just couldn’t stop herself from having and that connection seemed to have been lost.
And, God, did she need it right now.
But, then again, what good would it do to still have him as her confidant when he was the very thing she so desperately needed someone to confide in about. She couldn’t tell him all these things inside that scared her so much. He’d put his own spin on them all to tighten his hold on her.
Laying alone in the darkness, feeling empty and lost and alone, she wondered why the hell that would be so wrong. She lo-liked the hold he had on her. She needed it. She wasn’t alive without it – just barely surviving in a world she almost hated now.
Finally, thankfully, that train of thought – thinking of his hold on her – led her to thinking of him holding her and much more pleasant thoughts.
Well, she corrected herself with a sad little smile, not always pleasant, but at least satisfying.
Wanting to focus on something that just then she deliberately called forward the memory of a just last night in his crypt. Not the memory of handcuffing him to the bed and watching the pleasure with which he submitted control to her or of after that when she had allowed their positions to be reversed despite her declaration of never trusting him. Her mind drifted further back to the moment they had collapsed to the floor after slamming each other into surface after surface trying to get the upper hand and drive each other to yet another mind-blowing, bone-melting, argument ending orgasm.
Her hand drifted down her body, parting the robe she wore, as she remembered the driving, mindless thrusts of his cock inside her in that moment before collapsing. Her fingers slid between her legs, which parted as easily for the digits as they did for the man – vampire, she corrected firmly – she thought of.
She imagined she could still feel him buried inside her as her fingers tried to fill the void left in his absence.
Those fingers moved slowly in and out as she remembered the way they had broken apart to lay limply under his carpet and try desperately to draw breath into their lungs. At moments like that she loved that unlike other vampires – like Angel a voice whispered somewhere inside her, but it was squashed furiously by the thoughts of Spike she needed just then – he hadn’t lost the habit of breathing even though his lungs had long ago stopped working or needing the oxygen. His labored breaths allowed her to forget that he wasn’t a normal guy who it was ok for her to do those things with and love.
Her fingers froze inside her then slowly pulled out as eyes she didn’t remember closing suddenly opened wide in horror.
She had NOT just thought that word, she closed the robe around her and leapt from the bed to pace her room. She did NOT … that word … him. She couldn’t.
The loosened garment she wore began to slide down off her shoulders at her distressed movements and suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks as she caught the reflection in her mirror. Detachedly she watched the reflection, as if it were someone other than herself looking back at her, lift a hand to caress the bite mark just visible to her at the angle she stood facing the mirror.
Why couldn’t she? a tiny little voice inside asked as she traced the mark of each fang with gentle fingers.
Because it’s wrong, the old Buffy inside screamed self-righteously. He’s not a man or a lover or a friend to you. He’s nothing but a demon, a danger, a dead, evil, soulless thing. That bite isn’t the mark of someone you could love, it’s the bite of an animal.
Those last two words snapped her attention sharply away from the mirror and she yanked the robe up to cover her body then fled to the bathroom.
After turning on the faucets and starting a shower she threw off the robe and leapt into the tub without giving the water time to heat up. The initial cold sinking into her flesh from the showerhead made her think fondly of the way Spike’s body sometimes felt against hers then the water began to warm and she remembered painfully why she was in there.
Picking up her bath sponge and lathering it up with soap she started scrubbing furiously at the bite on her shoulder, as if she could erase it’s presence on her body or memory that easily. When the skin there was too raw to continue bearing such treatment she turned the punishment to the rest of her body until it was all red and raw and the water was again running cold over her shuddering frame.
When she turned the faucets back off and stumbled out of the tub to begin toweling her body dry she knew that damned old Buffy inside had won again.
She felt empty and cold to the core.
Yet again wondering why she kept putting herself through these inner battles and torments she put her robe back on then returned to her bedroom.
Tired like she always seemed to be when she was alone she curled up in her bed, on top of the blankets, and tried to shut off all thoughts and just sleep.
It wasn’t until her right hand curled over her left shoulder, with her fingers once again touching Spike’s bite, though, that she succeeded in getting rest that night.
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