Spike was watching Angel move against Buffy. One of her legs was straining against Angel's shoulder while the other was bracing his hip. The satin slip of skin against skin, the bright red of her toenails as she dragged her foot against Angel's upper thigh. Her shiny hair was tangled in Angel's clumsy hands; her perfect lips were opening for him. Spike took in how beautiful she looked with her flushed cheeks and her face vulnerable with pleasure. It made him feel numb.
“I don't belong here,” Spike repeated.
Buffy looked over at him as if she had only just noticed he was in the room.
“Of course you do, you're the only one who ever has,” Buffy said.
Suddenly, Spike found himself kissing Buffy's mouth; he'd replaced Angel and the other man was nowhere to be found. Spike reveled in the feel of her body underneath his. He loved the softness of her breasts contrasted with the insistent, pebbled nipples. She was hot and wet and gripping him so tight; it felt like they were the only two people in the world. Spike twined his fingers in hers.
“Buffy, say my name,” Spike said.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Spike had never noticed before how her green irises were splintered with flecks of gold, like sunlight dancing across the surface of a bright, green leaf.
“Dead men don't have names. Besides, we're hiding,” she said.
“Why won't you give me what I need?” Spike asked.
She kissed the corner of his mouth and then nibbled his lower lip.
“Because he's still inside me,” she said.
Everything shifted. Spike wasn't on top of her anymore and the room was changing all around them. He and Buffy were in the cage. Spike was dangling from the wall, suspended by the manacles. He could feel cold stone scraping against his back. Buffy was on her hands and knees before Spike, fondling his balls before she was swallowing his cock with a moan. The pleasure of it nearly canceled out the icy wall and stinging pain at his wrists. Spike wished he could comb his fingers through her messy hair as he watched his erection sliding in and out of her mouth, but his hands were restrained. Her tongue was urging him and she felt so incredibly hot.
Then Angel was standing astride her, stroking her body as though she were a big cat. Angel knelt behind her and parted her legs further. Spike watched the other man's broad hand teasing her cunt. She whinnied a little at the touch and then angled up to give Angel better access to her most private part. Spike felt betrayed, watching her back herself onto Angel’s fingers. Angel gripped his own penis and guided it into Buffy. Angel was clasping her hips, with each thrust a ripple went over her ass and her tits swayed in time. Spike wanted to kill her for letting it happen, yet she was so gorgeous like that, being penetrated on both sides.
Angel pulled out of Buffy and she let out an angry groan. She sagged toward the floor, but she didn't cease in trying to please Spike. Angel jerked himself off until he was sputtering drops of semen on her ass. It was horrible and incredible at the same time.
“You’ll always choose him, won’t you?” Spike asked.
Buffy’s eyes met Spike’s as she slowly withdrew from him, her lips pulling back to reveal each inch of his shaft until she released the head with a gentle suck.
“I didn’t choose either of you,” she said.
Then the three of them were sitting in the bottom of the shower, the hot water pattering against their skin. Angel was ghosting his hands over Buffy's arms and she was leaning her head against Angel's chest, her chin tipping back to lengthen the look of her neck. Her lids were half closed and her eyes looked like two stars shining out from the fringe of her thick lashes. Spike ran his hands over her stomach to her breasts. She sighed as Spike rolled her nipples with his thumbs. Angel was kissing her neck and Spike captured her lips. She was pressed between them; the cream in a vampire sandwich cookie and at that moment in Spike’s mind it was totally fine. Dream logic. Spike's tongue was sliding against hers when Buffy's pliant body went rigid. Spike opened his eyes.
Angel's face had shifted and he'd buried his fangs into the tender hollow above her clavicle. Red blood was spilling down Buffy's chest and mingling with the water, making it look like watercolor paint. Her eyes were fluttering frantically like a trapped moth.
“I'm done here, man, but you can finish her off,” Angel said.
Spike pressed his hand against her torn throat, trying to stop her life from ebbing away. She smiled at him weakly.
“He’s still behind me, isn’t he?” Buffy asked.
The scent of her blood was pushing Spike over the edge, but he tried to maintain self control.
“You should taste the milk before you slaughter the cow,” Angel said with a smirk.
Even though the other man's dark hair was saturated, not a strand had moved out of place.
Buffy's head was hanging limply against Angel's shoulder. Spike held her pallid cheek with his left hand and moved her face until her eyes were staring into his.
“I can fix this,” Spike said.
Spike kissed her dry, white-edged lips. He forced his fangs out and then bit his own wrist bloody. He offered her his vein, pressing it to her open mouth.
“Drink, stay with me,” Spike said.
“Never,” she said.
His threadbare composure had had all it could take. Spike let out a roar of anger and then drank deeply from the ragged wounds on Buffy’s neck. He didn't stop until Buffy began seizing. As he felt her die, Spike came back to his senses and regret came like a crushing weight. He stroked her hair and tried to quell her tremors.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he said.
Spike held her body close and began rocking her back and forth.
Then Spike was alone, with only the sound of the water hissing against the tile.
**
Spike woke with a start, tangled up in the sleeping bag. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows; his hair was likely ridiculous but there was no help for it, mirrors being a thing of the past. The basement was totally dark; Buffy must’ve killed the lights in a fit of pique, he thought. Then he saw a nebulous, green light coming down the stairs it seemed to be…it definitely was; it was skipping.
The blobby, glowing sphere skipped toward the cage, casting puddles of light below it on its journey. When the specter got to his door, it swarmed like a cloud of gnats into a humanoid shape. As it got distinct, the shape took on the character of a little girl. Her other colors filled in and Spike saw a child with long, brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing a red, corduroy jumper with a white, round collared shirt underneath. She had on taxi cab yellow rain boots that met her knobby knees; Spike realized that Tara had owned the very same pair when she was a little kid. In fact, the whole outfit might have come from Tara's childhood wardrobe.
“Hey Spike,” she said.
“Are you some kind of ghostie, love?”
“I don’t know. I’m a figment of your imagination, so I guess I’m whatever you decide. My name’s Dawn, but you already knew that, right, ‘cause, you know, figment.”
“Who would think Buffy would have any heart left to break after you?” Spike asked. The little girl gave him a giddy smile. Then she jerked her head to the side, as though she’d heard a loud noise.
“Oh, got to go, he's coming,” she said.
Spike woke with a start, his legs tangled up in the sleeping bag. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows; his hair was likely ridiculous but there was no help for it, mirrors being a thing of the past. The basement was totally dark; Buffy must’ve killed the lights in a fit of pique, he thought. He crawled along the stone floor to the pile of objects Tara had given him. Spike found the fat, blue pillar candle he was looking for and a pack of matches.
With a scrape and a pop the match ignited. He carefully carried the fragile flame to the candle wick, pursing his lips until it caught. In the nascent firelight he saw a face, horrible in its contortion. The eyes were amber and wreathed with bulges, the grinning mouth housed stiletto fangs, the nose was ridged and the head was crowned with curling, silver hair. He fell back, then realized it was his own face in its vampire guise.
Spike woke with a start, his long legs tangled up in the sleeping bag. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows. He ran a hand through his hair and then collapsed. The lights were on, as they’d been when he fell asleep. He heard footsteps, and Spike turned to face their source.
Buffy was coming down the stairs, a mug full of blood in one hand, a large, copper bowl filled with steaming water cradled in the other arm. She was wearing jeans so tight she’d have been hard pressed to wedge a penny in her pocket and a white tank top that was nearly, oh yeah, it was sheer. There was a pink towel draped over her arm. She had on flip flops and Spike eyed her toes.
He began to rise.
“Stop, don’t move until I tell you it’s O.K.,” Buffy said.
She approached the entrance to his enclosure and then stopped about a yard away from the door.
“Get up and go over to the manacles. Lock up your left hand,” Buffy said.
“You really like seeing me in chains, don’t you?” he asked.
He meant to be flirtatious, but he just sounded cranky. Spike stood and then loped to the wall, slowed by his soreness after passing out on the stone floor. He encircled his wrist with the black, metal band and then clicked it shut. The memory of his dream caused a sick weight of anticipation to settle in his gut. When he was securely fastened in place, Buffy approached. She set the water down and took a key from her neck, unlocking his cage. She picked up the cistern before entering his space. Buffy placed her burdens on the ground before him.
“If you try to touch me, I’ll dump the blood out,” she said.
“Thought you were going to threaten to stake me,” he said.
“You haven’t given me a reason,” Buffy said. Spike reached toward her with his free hand. Buffy produced a stake from nowhere and clutched it by her shoulder.
“I can find a reason really, really fast if you touch me,” she said.
Spike put the hand up in a gesture of surrender. Buffy manacled him and then picked up the mug. She placed it to his lips and he fed lustily, unable to keep his fangs from descending. Her hand shook when it happened, but she didn't stop tilting the cup for him. By the time the mug was empty, he felt calmer and his face had returned to normal.
Buffy set the glass down with a soft chink, then, squatting, she took the towel from her arm and saturated it in the copper basin. She wrung the cloth, causing a tinkling splash in the bowl. Then Buffy faced him, but avoided his confused eyes. She dragged the warm, moist towel over his chest.
“Look at me,” he said.
She stayed her hand and her eyes shot up to his.
“I didn't want to risk another shower trip,” she said by way of explanation.
Spike's throat was terribly dry. He took a useless breath.
“You could've just left the basin,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, her cheeks turning red., “is that what you want?”
“Since when have you cared about what I want, love?” he asked.
She dropped the towel.
“Fine, do it yourself,” she said.
Buffy turned and began marching away.
“Got to unlock me first,” Spike said.
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him.
“I could just leave you there,” she said.
“You'd do that, wouldn't you? You cold bitch. You made me this way, Buffy, and now you can't stand the sight of me,” Spike said.
She whipped around and came at him.
“I made you?”
Buffy was too upset to remind him not to use her name. He could see he'd cut her to the quick with his words, just as he knew he would. Spike didn't know why he'd tried to hurt her by saying her worst fear aloud. It wasn't like the games they'd played when he'd try to get her to react. This time he'd needed to feel her heart twist; he'd needed to cause her pain. It satisfied something dark and terrifying in him.
She was standing so close to him he could feel her breath on his skin; it smelled like chocolate ice cream and Diet Coke. Buffy was about a head shorter and she had to crane her neck to give him her glare, but it was still intimidating.
“You said it yourself, you hurt people, that's what you are. I knew it, I knew it the first time you touched me, but I stayed because I thought that we needed each other. But now that something's required of you, a little faith, a little trust, now I'm nothing but a broken toy, albeit a broken toy you still like to play with every once in a while,” he said.
A chain of tears was coasting down her cheek and all of Buffy's carefully maintained distance had disappeared.
“Stop looking like that, change your face,” she shouted.
“Why so it'll be easier to hit me even though I can't defend myself.
“No, so it'll be easier to kill you,” she said.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
O.K. this chapter. This is just filthy what I wrote here. Angel/Spike/Buffy three-way. You've been warned.
Chapter End Notes:
I almost deleted this puppy wholesale after writing it for fear that it was redundant/horribly off-putting/ written for all the wrong reasons.
Anyway, please let me know what you think. Also, don't worry about being too rough, I can take it.
Anyway, please let me know what you think. Also, don't worry about being too rough, I can take it.