I would like to address one thing, though, so as to hopefully avoid any confusion in further chapters. As I understand claiming, it’s pretty much a fanon thing. Something that doesn’t really have “rules,” even if there are certain expectations that come with it. In the end, though, it seems to me that it’s pretty much writer’s choice on how a claim is written/portrayed. I’m trying something different here—something I haven’t seen before, though it might be written somewhere. Either way, since claiming is a fanon thing, I think it’s OK to explore.
Spike doesn’t know he claimed Buffy, and it’s not going to just occur to him from nowhere. I’ll get into it in further chapters, but basically, I’m working from the angle that Spike has never claimed anyone or been claimed before. He doesn’t know what to associate his feelings with, and jumping to the “claim” conclusion isn’t even on his radar. He has a passing knowledge of claims, but he’s never really researched them (again, something I’ll get into in later chapters), thus the demon claiming Buffy was an innate thing more than anything else. I just thought I should clarify that before I go on. In my little world, this isn’t something that Spike is just going to magically know. With as much as I’ve read, and with as much of a hot-button-issue as claims seem to be in the Spuffy fandom, I wanted to try something a little different.
Okay, that’s all. Thank you all again so much for your kind reviews. =)
- Ameeya
Buffy very rarely looked at herself naked.
Several months ago, before the attack of Angel’s multiple personalities, Xander had asked her if girls ever stood in front of the mirror and looked at themselves naked. They’d been at the Bronze on a rare, demonically inactive Friday night, and he’d shouted the question during an inconvenient quiet point between the band’s songs. Willow had blushed profusely, Cordelia had huffed in disgust and slapped his arm, and Buffy had just laughed and laughed.
After she was all laughed out, she’d told him no. And the crestfallen look on his face was nothing short of hysterical. She’d cushioned the blow a bit—told him that some girls might, that not all females were linked psychically, and she didn’t know about girls that were more confident. Girls that were sexual creatures first and human beings second.
Just a few weeks ago, during one of the gang’s outings with Faith, Buffy had caught Xander’s eye and said softly, “She might be one of them.” And the goofy look on his face had told her that he got the message, loud and clear.
Buffy had no reason to be thinking of her friend’s bizarre question, aside from the fact that she was currently standing in the bathroom, naked, and looking at herself. Just looking. Her body had no marks that would be indicative of sexual assault. Her skin bore no bruises. And she wasn’t surprised, because sometime after waking, she’d consigned herself to the reality that her experience couldn’t be compared to the horrors of actual rape. Spike had been nothing but caring with her, even when he’d gone down on her in spite of her pleas. He hadn’t done anything to bring his own body release. He’d slid his cock inside her, yes, but nothing had happened after that. Nothing until the next morning, when she’d all but begged him to keep screwing her.
A long sigh hissed through her lips. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious. She wanted to feel violated. But she didn’t now. She had before—before Spike awoke and regarded her with shock instead of malice. When he’d taken her slowly and sweetly, when he hadn’t bruised her body with his. When she’d seen the horror and guilt in his eyes rather than cold satisfaction.
Buffy had been angry that morning. She wasn’t now. Not with Spike. She was just disgusted with herself.
And she was looking at herself naked, her hands occasionally twitching at her sides. She lifted her smallish breasts, rubbed her flat stomach, and finally lowered her eyes to her pussy and shivered. Her body might as well have been a stranger’s—she didn’t know it very well. She was an organic weapon against evil, and only once before had she viewed herself as someone sexual. She was used to appraising her muscles, doctoring cuts and bruises, and applying bandages to sore skin before patrol. She wasn’t used to noticing her own femininity. Not in a sexual way. Sure, she loved clothes and make-up and doing girly things with her gal-friends, when possible, but even when she was a part of a couple—when she’d been with Angel—it was hard for her to view herself as anything other than Buffy. Girly Buffy, yes. Slayer Buffy, check. All-Woman-Buffy, double check. But never Sexual Buffy. Not until the night that Angel had taken her virginity, and certainly not any time since.
She’d thought about sexual things, yes, but always as other people would experience them. Even when she thought of Angel, she’d see herself and Angel from a distance, her mind taking on the role of a voyeur as she concocted fantasies that involved her without involving her.
Spike had made her feel sexual, and now she was looking at her body and wondering why. Buffy was pretty certain that she didn’t look any different than other girls, and she was more than convinced that there were women out there with more impressive figures. Women who had bigger boobs, better tits, and perhaps less hair between their legs—the sort of women she’d seen in her father’s dirty magazines a lifetime ago. The kind that were more plastic than human, but somehow still more appealing to the male population. She didn’t see herself as truly desirable, and yet Spike had wanted her. He could have come home with any demon whore he wanted—and damn if that didn’t smart. He could have, but he hadn’t. No, he’d returned to the factory with her in mind.
Well, she supposed she couldn’t prove that. Alcohol made the mind all foggy; at least, so said her health class instructor. Perhaps she’d looked more appealing to him when he was drunk. Perhaps she’d looked like a Playboy centerfold with too many clothes on. She didn’t know.
Buffy pursed her lips and parted her legs just slightly, her eyes immediately attracted to the bite mark that graced her left inner thigh for the first time. It was startlingly beautiful, nothing like she would have expected. Nothing like the ugly scar the Master had left on her neck. Spike hadn’t bitten her in anger or violence, rather with tenderness and care. And the mark was beautiful.
Compelled, she reached down to stroke it, and gasped at the shard of ecstasy that shot to her core the second her fingers ran across the mark.
“Oh my God.”
What the hell was that?
She ran her finger across the bite mark again, and her knees about buckled in pleasure.
Oh my God.
Instantly, she shot her hand back to her side and took a step away from the mirror, as though seeing her reflection was what had prompted both her action and her very prominent reaction. She turned quickly and twisted the bath nozzle. Better to just shower, as had been her intention upon coming into the bathroom in the first place, and return to her life. Her wonderfully dull if-you-didn’t-include-world-savage-and-occasionally-killing-your-boyfriend life.
It had been the strangest day, and she hadn’t done anything. She’d wasted away in bed, wrestling with her disturbing Spike-shaped thoughts and trying very hard to convince herself that she hated him when, actually, she found that she wasn’t even angry. And wasn’t that a kick in the pants?
Buffy sighed and braced her hands on the wall as water from the showerhead cascaded over her body. Had it only been twenty-four hours since her life made sense? She knew she wasn’t perfect; she knew that she had her problems—Angel’s sudden return from Hell being a big one—but she’d been at least mildly well-adjusted. What seventeen-year-old girl could attest to being so level-headed when the world was constantly falling down around her and she had to destroy her one-and-only to prevent the apocalypse?
Not many, she thought bitterly, reaching for the soap bar. Only one in every generation.
Her eyes fell shut as she began rubbing her body down. This time yesterday, she’d been chained to Spike’s bed. This morning, she’d walked out of the factory, and her life had changed. She wanted to ignore it, but Buffy wasn’t an idiot. She knew her life had changed. It would never be the same because of what happened, and honest to God, she didn’t know why.
Buffy sighed, her left hand skating down her stomach and coming to rest over the bite mark, and she shuddered with pleasure.
Why does this feel so good?
Tears pricked at her eyes; she didn’t know why she was so damned emotional over a bite. She should be grateful, right? At least he’d bitten her there and not on her throat where the world could see. Not that she liked that the bite was so close to her pussy. It made it so much easier to…
A strangled gasp tore from her throat and she squeezed the tender skin at her thigh, her right hand cupping her pussy, fingers dancing over her slick flesh. She shivered and ignored the churning in her stomach—the same that had followed her whenever her mind took her to subjects she’d always thought were taboo.
Buffy had never really tried to bring herself off. She’d explored, sure, but never like she’d read about in magazines. Something about it seemed dirty, or had at one time. But Spike wasn’t here—oh God, it was so easy to imagine that he was. So incredibly easy to picture that they were his hands caressing her body. That he was rubbing the bite mark, that his fingers were prying apart her pussy lips and dipping inside her.
“Ohhh…” She whimpered and threw her head back. Spike was behind her, kissing down her throat and rumbling unintelligible adorations into her skin. She felt the inside of his wrists rubbing across her pelvis as he caressed her clit. She felt his mouth tasting her skin. She felt his chest rumble behind her when she cried out, heard his whispered commands that she not hold anything back. He told her how warm she felt, purred at how wet she was, all the while thrusting his cock against her backside as his balls slapped against her backside.
Buffy whimpered again desperately, and he growled at her ear. And all the other voices shut up. The one telling her that she was being disgusting. The one telling her that it was wrong. The one telling her that Spike had abused her. The one telling her to forget it and move on. Everything drowned out. Everything went away. All that was left was Spike.
Spike, who had suckled on her clit, sunk his fangs into her left thigh, and declared, “Mine!”
The world trembled around her as she came. Her legs shook. Her insides quivered. Her fingers were drenched. Oh God, that had been wonderful. She’d taken something that was hers and enjoyed it. Enjoyed it with Spike, only this time, there was no guilt. There was no horror. There were no tears. There was only Buffy. Only Buffy and Spike.
Except Spike wasn’t actually there. He’d felt real, yes, but he wasn’t.
Something that Buffy remembered just seconds later when she sighed and tried to lean against him. Instead of a sturdy chest and loving arms, she met with cold air, and yelped in surprise as her footing abandoned her and she fell inelegantly to the shower floor.
“Owwie.”
Okay, so maybe next time, she shouldn’t get so caught up in the fantasy.
To be continued