“Well, isn’t this just a Kodak moment.” Buffy smiled disarmingly as she left the stairs and started casually toward Anya and Spike. Her smile faded to a soft expression of concern, as she registered the tears in Spike’s eyes, the weighted atmosphere of the room, and she asked sympathetically, “What’s wrong? Something I should know?”
But there was an odd note in her voice that was not quite sincere.
Anya suddenly noticed that Buffy’s intent gaze had fastened on the place where her hand rested on Spike’s arm, and withdrew it quickly, taking a step away from the vampire as she turned to face the Slayer fully.
“Everything’s okay, Buffy,” she answered automatically, but then reconsidered, her jaw setting with resolve as she met her eyes squarely and amended in a grim voice, “No. Everything’s *not* okay. Buffy – we need to talk. We need to figure out what’s going on here before someone gets hurt…”
As she was speaking, Buffy moved slowly nearer to her and Spike, and Anya instinctively moved between the Slayer and the vampire her attention was focused on, aware of the subtle threat being directed at him.
Buffy’s eyes rose to meet those of the ex-demon with a sort of surprised, amused smile – which slowly became a look of challenge as she said softly, “Excuse me,” and tried to move past Anya, holding her gaze the whole time.
Anya moved with her, blocking her path – not about to back down. “Wait,” she said firmly. “Buffy, listen to me. You have a problem. Something went wrong with the ritual, and you’re – you’re not yourself. You’re doing things that are dangerous, and you need – you need to get control, Buffy.” Anya released the final words in a rush with a long, slow breath, her eyes earnestly searching the Slayer’s for some sign of understanding.
“But I *am* in control.” Buffy smiled, and something in her eyes chilled Anya’s blood, as she realized that the person she was speaking to was probably telling the truth – she just wasn’t sure if it was really *Buffy*.
“Anya, really, everything’s fine,” maybe-not-Buffy insisted with a little laugh. “I was just upstairs practicing some meditation techniques Will taught me, and I’m feeling much calmer now. Please, Anya, I just need to talk to Spike for a minute.” Her tone said clearly that she was losing patience, and was moments away from forcing the issue.
Spike knew that she was lying through her teeth. She was no more calm now than she had been when she had left the room. He tensed at her last words, feeling a sense of dread come over him. He could feel the anger rolling off the Slayer, knew that the “talk” she had in mind would not be a pleasant one – not for him. And his emotions were so near to the surface at the moment, her fury and power so palpable, that he knew resistance would not be an option if she managed to get him alone.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Anya spoke quietly but firmly as she bravely blocked Buffy’s advance again, as she tried to step past her.
Spike was both amazed and horrified by her courage in standing up to Buffy – because there was no way that Anya could hope to actually stop her if Buffy was determined to get to him.
And the Slayer was getting angry.
“Get out of my way,” she said in a soft voice, with just a hint of menace.
Anya took a deep breath, before answering in a voice that was strong, with just a slight tremor to it, “No.”
Buffy’s smile vanished, her eyes narrowing in undisguised anger at the attempt to prevent her from getting to *her* vampire. Spike recognized that dark, possessive gleam in her eyes, knew that the primal force that had driven the Slayer to claim him was now furious at the interfering girl who was trying to keep her from him.
Anya had no idea of the danger she was putting herself in.
Against his better judgment, without really thinking it through, Spike did the first thing that came to mind. As usual.
He stepped forward, taking Anya’s arm firmly and pulling her back as he moved forward to face Buffy, much to Anya’s surprise and dismay.
“Spike,” she protested. “No…she’s…”
“Anya,” he interrupted, firmly, calmly, hoping his fear did not show in his eyes. “It’s all right. She just wants to talk. So let’s – give the lady what she wants.” The last few words were spoken slowly, deliberately, in a slightly mocking tone, but he held her gaze as he spoke and hoped she would understand what he was trying to say.
Buffy wanted power. It was his defiance before that had caused her to become violent, and he knew that if Anya persisted in trying to keep her from him, it would have the same result now. His best hope at this point, until they could figure out how to stop what was happening, was to give her the submission she desired before she resorted to violence to get it.
Anya searched his eyes for a long moment, and seemed to understand – but still did not seem pleased. She did not want to leave him at Buffy’s mercy, but realized that physically, she could do little to protect him. If she attempted to, she would likely be badly hurt herself, and it would not do Spike any good at all.
Slowly, reluctantly, she took a step backward, looking away, very unhappy with the situation, as Spike moved cautiously toward Buffy, forcing a casual smile which the Slayer did not return. She was still looking at the other woman – the perceived threat to her claim.
“Really, Anya, everything’s okay now. We’re gonna be fine,” she assured her, just as Spike came within her reach, and she caught his arm in a firm, almost painful grip that made him flinch slightly as she pulled him closer to her. “I’ll just see you at the meeting.”
Anya was alarmed by the dismissal, aware that if Buffy was herself, she would not want Anya to leave. That was why she had invited her over in the first place. She did not want to leave Spike here alone with Buffy – but she was aware that angering the unstable Slayer would be just as dangerous – for *both* of them.
“I – I don’t have anywhere I need to be,” she shrugged in an attempt at casual. “I could hang around for a little while…”
“Or you could…*not*…” Buffy pointed out with a cold, false smile, and Spike could feel the possessive rage building up inside her, threatening to explode – knew that if Anya did not leave now, Buffy would likely throw her out bodily. And her increased anger at having to do so would not bode well for *him*, either.
“Anya,” he said quietly, his eyes averted. “Go.”
“But…”
“Just go,” he interrupted in a gentle but firm voice, appreciative of her desire to help him – but aware that she could not, not this way.
Each step seemed to take forever as Anya reluctantly walked to the door.
“See you at the meeting,” Buffy repeated, her tone friendly again now that she had gotten her way, smiling at the retreating form of the girl as she walked out the door.
The door had barely closed behind Anya when Buffy whirled around, gripping Spike’s free arm in her hand and slinging him hard against the nearest wall, right at the base of the stairs. His eyes closed and he swallowed hard, biting back a groan of pain as he felt the heat of her nearness as she pressed in close to him.
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, as he felt her warm hands sliding slowly up his arms, her touch surprisingly gentle, but powerful, restraining – intensely possessive.
“Mine,” she whispered, her voice almost tender, holding only a trace of the threat that had filled it before.
“Yes,” he agreed, nodding slowly, his eye still averted and downcast. “Yes, Buffy.” He was determined not to do anything to make her angry, to submit and do whatever he could to keep her calm, until he and Anya could get the chance to find out what was happening to her.
But as soon as her hand began to move upward toward her mark, he felt a sense of panic come over him. He could still feel her anger, and knew the pain that she could cause him with a single touch. If she touched him, he would be helpless – completely at her mercy.
His hand rose quickly, reaching to cover the mark, but Buffy was expecting it this time. Her demeanor changed again in an instant, as she caught his wrists with lightning speed and brought them together between them, crossed against his stomach and pinned with one of her strong hands. With the other she shoved him forcefully back against the wall again with a warning snarl, and he immediately ceased his struggling, though his entire body was trembling with dread – and desire.
He knew that she could hurt him, badly, and probably intended to. And yet – he craved her touch so desperately, the very touch he had denied her before. Her mark ached with her nearness, and his own longing, yearning for contact – even if the touch was cruel and punishing.
She kept his wrists pinned with one hand, her body pressed against him preventing his escape, as she traced a slow line with her fingertips, back up his arm to his shoulder, stopping a bare inch from her covered mark, studying his face impassively.
His eyes were closed, his lips parted and trembling as he gasped for breath, overwhelmed by the mere anticipation of her touch. As her hand neared its goal, he instinctively bared his throat to her in submission and need. His actions were a contradiction, he knew – first attempting to prevent her from touching him at all, and then silently begging for the very same touch – but so were his emotions.
He wanted her, and he feared her – craved her touch, and dreaded it – rebelled against her claim, and yet longed to submit. As her fingers traced a slow, torturous circle around the outer edge of her mark, he fought dual impulses, both to jerk free of her restraining hands and escape – and to press into her touch, to urge her on to more.
*Submit,* he reminded himself urgently. *Submit, submit…* he repeated over in his head, trying to make himself remember what he had decided would be his best means of escaping this encounter unharmed.
A cool smile playing over her lips, Buffy slowly made the circle she was tracing smaller and smaller, edging nearer to the aching place he longed for her to touch – but not touching it. And then, suddenly, she removed her hand completely.
He fought back a whimper of frustration, leaning unconsciously nearer to her hand, which responded by gripping his hair and shoving his head back against the wall again, holding him there for a moment to indicate that she did not want him to move, before releasing him, leaning in to speak softly near his ear.
“I thought you didn’t want me to touch you there, Spike.” Her voice was softly mocking, with a hint of vindictive anger in her tone, and her warm breath teased the spot, already highly sensitive from her touch.
“No,” he whispered desperately, his former resolve forgotten. “Buffy, please, I need you – I – I *want* you to touch me, please…” he babbled out the words in a desperate, breathless rush. “Please, Buffy, please, Buffy…” Reason, pride, had fled; all he was conscious of was the urgent need she had driven him to, and was now so viciously withholding.
“You let her touch you.” The simple statement was an accusation, as the Slayer suddenly stepped back, breaking the contact between them completely, cold eyes narrowed on him in anger.
Though the press of her body against his, the forced closeness, had been oppressive and unsettling, he felt her absence, the loss of contact, like a physical pain, starting at the abandoned, desperate mark, and coursing through his body with a sense of cold fear, at the thought that perhaps he had crossed a line, made her so angry that she no longer wanted him at all.
He had heard of one or two claimed vampires who had been abandoned – rejected – by their claimants, cast aside, no longer considered worthy of their affections. The loneliness, the agony of rejection, had driven those vampires mad with the unrelenting, unfulfilled need of the claims that still bound them, regardless of the presence of their claimants.
As those old stories raced through his head with a sense of panic at Buffy’s withdrawal, his greatest fear, of spending the rest of his existence belonging to the volatile, powerful Slayer, was replaced by a greater fear – of *not* belonging to her, of having her, now that she had claimed him, decide that she had made a terrible mistake and no longer wanted him.
“Please – please, Buffy…” he whispered, moving forward without realizing he was even doing it, just desperate to fill the awful gap between them.
She cut him off suddenly with a hard hand at his throat, slamming him back into the wall with frightening power, cutting off his unneeded oxygen as she leaned in close again and snarled in a low, menacing voice, “Don’t. Move.”
He shook his head emphatically in a silent promise, and she loosened her hold, but did not let him go completely, pressing in closer to him as she demanded in a low voice of terrifying fury, “Which is it, Spike? You want me to touch you? Or not?”
“Yes, yes,” he gasped out, the words almost a sob. “I need you, need you, Buffy, I *want* you to touch me, please!”
He was desperate already, but driven to further urgency of need as her thumb, resting just over her mark, lowered slightly to slide over the soft material that covered it in the lightest ghost of a touch, and he let out a soft moan of mingled pleasure and pleading.
“You sure?” she taunted with a hard, angry smile of triumph. “You wouldn’t rather it was someone else?” As she spoke she lifted her thumb so that she was no longer touching him.
“No,” he pleaded. “No – no one else, Buffy! I don’t want anyone but you, only you, Buffy! Only you!”
Her hand on his throat softened, then slid around to the back of his neck, fisting in his hair and pulling his head back slightly as she pressed in closer, one hand slipping possessively around his waist and pulling him closer to her.
She held his gaze with smoldering fury and desire in her own, as she whispered, “Yes. Only me. Only *mine*, Spike. You’re mine. And *no one* else can touch you!”
Her possessive words of ownership stirred a deep longing within him that he had only recently discovered, and unexpectedly sent a rush of blood to his groin. He felt himself hardening against her as he moaned softly, “Buffy – Buffy – you – only yours – no one else…”
His words were cut off again, as she suddenly jerked his head forward, her lips crushing his with a bruising, punishing kiss that pressed him back into the wall again, and caused the swelling bulge of his erection to grow even harder. She smiled against his lips when she felt his reaction to her, her hand at his waist dropping down to grab the back of his thigh and pull him tighter against her, rotating her hips slowly against him as she did.
A soft, strangled cry of pleasure rose from his throat, his lips parted and gasping against hers as she drew him even nearer to her. “Buffy!” he moaned. “God, *Buffy*!”
“You like that?” she murmured in a low, throaty voice, her smile widening as he nodded weakly, his eyes closed, breathing heavily as he leaned into her embrace.
Her hand in his hair lowered to rub the back of his neck in slow, firm circles, edging again toward the place that marked him as hers. “Buffy,” he gasped out. “Buffy…yes….need you, Buffy…”
“Only me,” she repeated in a harsh, demanding tone. “Mine! You’re mine, Spike! Only mine!”
“Yes,” he gasped, a desperate, pleading note in his voice. “Yours, Buffy, only yours…”
Her hand became forceful again, tipping his head back, making him vulnerable to her, as she went on in a low, possessive growl, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of his throat just above the mark. “No one else has the right to touch you! *No one*!”
“No,” he gasped out, shaking his head in obedience. “No one else – no one but you – only yours, Buffy – please!”
She knew what it was he was pleading for – both his rebellion and his submission had earned it – as she met his eyes with a dark, feral intensity and repeated forcefully one last time, “*Mine*!”
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice soft and broken with emotion and need. “Yes…yours, Buffy…always yours…”
As before, the complete submission, the total giving of control to her, satisfied the need in her to reiterate the power of her claim, and he watched in wonder and confusion as the primal force within her gradually receded, and she became “just Buffy” again, before his eyes.
Startled, uncertain, she drew back from him slightly, staring at him through wide, stricken eyes.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, taking in his bruised, ravaged mouth, his shaken demeanor and fearful, uncertain eyes. “Spike – I’m so sorry…”
*Sorry?* he thought, the word sending a fresh pang through him. God, he needed her so much! She had just spent the past few minutes reclaiming him, reaffirming that he was hers, that he mattered to her – and she was *sorry*?
He could not help the little flinch that went through him at the unintentionally hurtful word. He shook his head slightly, swallowing back a sob.
*No…no…she can’t change her mind now…she can’t just *do* that and then…no…*
“Please,” he whispered in the same broken tone he had used moments before. “Please, Buffy…don’t…”
She flinched this time, misunderstanding his words, her eyes welling with tears. “Spike, I’m so sorry. I need to just – just stay away…I’m so sorry…” As she spoke, she backed away a few steps, her eyes averted.
She was stunned when a cool, strong hand suddenly caught her arm, pulling her back, and she looked up into wide, panicked blue eyes – *so beautiful* went through her mind as she nearly lost herself in them.
“Please, Buffy,” he whispered desperately, holding her gaze. “Please don’t – don’t go…”
Her eyes widened and she stared at him in shock at the unexpected plea. “Don’t hurt me” she might have expected, after the cruel way she had manhandled and abused him. “Leave me alone” – yes, not a surprise. But that he actually wanted her to stay…
She searched his eyes, startled and awed by the depth of emotion she saw there, the desperate, yearning need – and she remembered what Anya had said. A heavy sense of responsibility came over her as she recalled the words of the ex-demon. Spike *needed* her – desperately. No matter what she did to him, no matter how badly she treated him, he was still going to crave her, desire her, *need* her – because of the claim she had made.
She had the sudden realization that leaving, now, denying his plea, would hurt him worse than anything she had done to him thus far.
And the truth was, she realized, taking in the beautiful sight of the creature before her – she wanted him, too. He was hers, she realized anew with a sense of elation and pleasure. Hers to cherish – to protect – to…
“Buffy,” Spike whispered, drawing her attention from her thoughts of him, to the reality of him, standing before her, searching her eyes with desperate, open need. “Please…I need you…I need…”
He never got the chance to finish his sentence, because in the next moment, the Slayer’s lips were covering his, her arms wrapped around him in an embrace more tender, more intimate, than any she had allowed since the claim. She did not know what she was feeling exactly, or why she was feeling it.
All she knew was that this felt *right*. And after all the hurt she had caused him, intentional or not, she knew that Spike deserved what she was offering him in this moment – and she would give it to him while she could. After all, she had no idea if in the next moment she would no longer be able to give it to him at all.
And she had a *lot* to make up for.
[Reviews - 1135]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | 
Chapter or Story
Has been viewed 3549 times
- Text Size +
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story - Text Size +