All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14  15

The Last Summer
By Annie Sewell-Jennings

Part Seven


The scene was destructive. Painted in the cool lime of a streetlight, his mouth berry red and glistening with ripe moisture, face shifted into the immortal and distorted visage of the demon that she had ignored since his arrival, Spike held the young girl limply to his body. The girl was dead, blue hair glimmering around her face like a pixie, her slender body clothed in tight zebra pants and a sequined top. Death had already stolen her - she was gone. Absolutely gone.

Pained, Buffy staggered backwards, and Spike threw the body to the ground, his snarling face shifting back to its more human visage, if anything about the bastard of a vampire could ever be considered human. The very sight of her anguished expression infuriated him, and he stepped closer to her, knocking the stake out of her hands with his bloodstained palm. Caught red-handed, Buffy thought dazedly. She had caught him red-handed.

"So what!" he shouted at her, an inhuman snarl catching his words. "Yeah, I killed her. I'm a bloody vampire! It's what I do. You didn't think that fucking me would change that, did you? You're not *that* nave!" The angular cheekbones stood out gauntly, and his eyes flared with a mixture of cerulean and amber, so passionate that she felt burned just by looking at him.

Rage flooded her body, pure and uncontrollable, and she slammed her fist into his face, hair flying around her face in a fury of multicolored gold. She was a portrait of danger, of death and destruction, in her black tank top and flared jeans, the Doc Martens heavy and her hair a frenzied mass of fragmented gold. She smelled of cigarettes and hormones, and he knew that in this state she'd kill him just for the adrenaline high that would follow. "I know what you are," she said harshly, her face clean and unmarred by her heavy hand and eyeliner, flushed the color of exploding roses. "You're a pathetic bastard of a man who's terrified of death and kills to make up for it." He was floored and she knew it. "Yeah, Spike, I know that you're scared of it. You tiptoe around the windows during the day and you can't bring yourself to actually kill yourself. I've watched you and waited for you to go Nike and just do it, but you wimp out every single time." She twisted her face into a sneer. "Loser."

Rage uncontrollable. Lust undeniable. Anger irrevocable. He had never hated her more than in that singular moment, with her self- righteous sea eyes and her dusted clothing, her hair a myriad of ridiculous colors and her chin tilted in the lift of the arrogant and stupid. Outraged pulsed along with the lights inside of the warehouse, and Spike grabbed her by her hair, his chipped fingernails sinking into the raging rapids of her blue and gold hair, and she hissed at the pain, never giving him the pleasure of whimpering. "You're a ripe one to talk about fearing death," he hissed. "You with your bloody warehouses and little whelps, your sodding *stupid* hair and your badgering. You're nothing, you know. You're just a good shag and that's about it. Everything that was decent about you died in America with the rest of your friends, and now you're worthless."

With that, he tugged once more on her kaleidoscopic hair, the strands flying out like parrot's feathers when he released her, and she stumbled briefly, regaining her balance and approaching him with a voice like cut glass and barbed wire. "I'm *not* worthless," she said boldly, and Spike arched his scarred eyebrow at her. "None of us are worthless. That's something that you don't understand and something that you never have understood. We're all worth something on this planet, and everyone thinks that we're just nameless bodies. Statistics." She glared at him as though he had pressed the button and started this mess. "Well, I'm not a fucking statistic! I'm Buffy Summers!" Her voice was becoming mangled by tears that she shattered before they could fall. "I'm the goddamn Slayer! The Chosen One! The one who saved everyone's asses but still got screwed in the end because no one knew who I was!"

Furiously, Spike yelled at her, his mouth inches away from hers, gesturing emphatically as he spoke. "Yeah, well what about me?" he demanded, his voice broken and dark, like hard candy. "You think you know everything that there is to know about old Spike, don't you? That I'm just a bad-ass, chain-smoking, murdering, bad, rude man? Well, I've got a little confession for you, Summers - it just so happens that I *like* this planet. I like its style. I like living my immortal unlife and I don't fancy the idea of giving it up any time soon. I'm supposed to be bloody immortal, and I feel a little cheated on that whole end of the deal!"

Thunder rumbled in the distance; lightning the color of his bleached hair and just as malevolent flickered in between the spires of glass and metal. Wind whispered, and the entire world seemed electrified with the violence rippling between the vampire and the Slayer. Desperately, desolately, Buffy threw her hands up, her wrists seemingly chained and shackled by the myriad of black bracelets that decorated her gold skin, eyes brimming with the emptiness that came from being sentenced to death. "Don't you get it, Spike?" she said, her voice hard and brittle all at once. "We were *all* cheated. Every single one of us. We all got screwed over because of this."

Lightning blistered through the skies, and the clouds exploded over them, showering them with pelting rain. The world had turned on her again, a storm unfurling and unleashing a devastating assault of liquid and electricity, and Buffy closed her eyes, tipping her head backwards, feeling the rains falling on her. It made her feel like crying and it made her feel like killing someone. These were the rains that would one day kill her. Maybe they were killing her now. The rains sweeping in from the Northern Hemisphere, weeping tears of radioactive liquid, bringing damnation and precipitation in a flood that not even Noah's ark could survive.

Oh, fuck, they were all so screwed.

Descending in a whirlwind of impassioned destruction, Buffy felt her emotions spiral in an earth-shattering tornado of tumultuous discord, falling into despair, and she fought tears with a skill less sufficient than her abilities as a Slayer. She wanted to weep, wanted to scream, wanted to do something rather than remain in this state of helpless anticipation. Waiting for death was a long and drawn-out process of anguish, and she felt useless, felt worthless, just as he'd said that she was.

Slowly, terrified of seeing the whorl of death's cloak in the twist of storm clouds above her, Buffy opened her eyes, looking at the storm that was pouring on her in a torrent of ruining rain. Palms outstretched, waiting for the nails to drive through palms and feet, Buffy let it rain, and he watched her silently, wanting to draw her into himself, to swallow her wretchedness and digest her despair. He understood it. Understood the feeling of absolute uselessness, the desperation of knowing that death was knocking and there was nothing that he could do to stop it. They were bound together now. Tethered by turmoil - it was a bond that they would never have experienced if the world hadn't destroyed itself.

Leather licked at his legs as he walked to her, and she opened her eyes slowly, looking at him in his exquisitely defiant beauty, water sluicing down the carved angles of his cheekbones, catching on the incongruous pout of his lower lip. That mouth, soft and luxurious, was the antithesis of who he was. Such an oddly soft mouth for a man who was so malevolent and sharp. She reached her fingertips out and touched him, and she crushed her body to his in an embrace too brutal to be kind or sweet. Water poured down on them as she kissed him, her hair a drenched mass of color and design, never colorful enough to hide how achromatic and numb she had become.

"I don't know who I've become," she confessed in a hushed murmur, and her murdering priest threaded his hands through the tangle of reds and blues that had swallowed the purity of her hair.

"Neither do I," he said, and it wasn't as comforting as she had wanted it to be. Didn't matter. She would kiss him anyway, make love to him here, because she could understand passion better than she could understand herself.

Water poured down in a constant timpani of percussion, soft and hard all at once, and that was him as well. Shaking fingers pulled his duster off his shoulders, and it fell to the ground in a puddle of leather and liquid. She set herself to work on his mouth, tossing her hair back in a fan of magenta and cerulean, the gold as white as his peroxide hair. Hooking her arms around his neck, she felt his hands ascend her spine, fingernails digging into her skin with a pain so pleasant that it was delectable. Scratch the surface, she willed. Remove the scar tissue.

It was too thick for her to ever deal with.

Crying out into his mouth, she arched her back, edges of flamboyant hair tickling his wrists, and he grabbed the skin of her back, wrenching a throaty moan that was mixed with agony and ecstasy from her mouth. Coarsely, he kissed her, holding back nothing, lusting for her in a thousand ways, and it was a heartbreaking want that propelled her to a mouth that tasted like melted pennies, coppery from the blood that he had stolen. Pennies from heaven, swallowed by hell - that was the flavor of his mouth, and she was addicted. Hooked. She was hopeless.

Rain slammed down on them both, coursing down the lines of their bodies, painting them in opaque waters. Safe, clean, supposedly redeeming; these nave rains. She was filth that required more cleansing than one thundershower, and yet she took this for what it was. She took it because it temporarily filled her. Sad, that the only time she felt alive anymore was in the embrace of the undead.

Bodies separated for a whisper of a moment to remove clothing; she commandingly and brutally tore off his tee shirt and revealed his milky skin to the rain, as though it were some sort of twisted sacrifice to the gods. The gods were silent these days. Perhaps they were ashamed of the foolishness of their creation; she didn't know. The black tank top that revealed a sliver of her taut abdomen slid off of her slicked body with less ease, stubbornly clinging to the moist curvature of her svelte figure. Spike couldn't blame the article of clothing; he wanted to remain plastered to her skin for the short remainder of his life. She was the best thing left on earth, even if she thought herself hollow and criminal. It was criminal for them to do this, but Spike had never been one for rules in the first place.

Black satin clung to her breasts, shimmering with the rainwater that dampened it, and she felt so heated from arousal that she thought she'd exude steam from her body heat. He was so cool that he personified rain, and maybe that was what flowed through his dead veins. Water instead of blood. Precipitation instead of pulse. She tipped her head back as he caressed her, and the street light died suddenly, plunging them into darkness. The power had gone out, the lights slamming them into pitch, and the lightning increased with an intensity comparable to a natural strobe, flickering and giving images in flashes and spurts. Percussion matched with thunder, creating a synchrony of arousal and storm, and she was as taut as an electric wire with want.

And the lightning revealed it all in fragmented glimpses:

Scarlet fingernails scraped up his back, a sharp contrast of crimson and porcelain. Flashes of magenta and blue, dark and damp, fanning in the air as she tilted her head back from pleasure. Her face a mosaic of desire, eyes closed and lips parted, a symphony of sensuality pouring from her mouth in an operatic score. Breasts round and ripened, chipped black fingernails tracing juicy underside and sliding underneath satin to caress coral nipples. Hardness straining for soft warmth, navel hollow and filled with perspiration and precipitation. Magnetic cerulean eyes underneath fringes of black, lost with lust and impossible to surface from, deeper than tidal pools and oceans. A mouth too soft to be his, exuding shaking rasps of want that were incomprehensible to anyone but her, sculpted in a fashion that rivaled Adonis.

Fingertips delved inside the waistband of her ebony pants, tracing the line down to the soft rise of her satin-covered mons, and he slid his fingers inside of her panties, tracing the swollen and moist folds in a fashion that made her strangle a scream. Taunting, like silk scarves cooled and poured over muscle and bone, and she clawed his shoulder frenetically, not caring who saw them or who knew. No one to tattle on them now. No one to damn them for their tryst, this affair between vampire and Slayer. No one to care.

No one to stop them.

Brutally, his fingertip slid inside of her, and she moaned, her head flying forward and resting against his chest, gasping into the soft skin that seemed so hard, like marble, but was as gentle as milk and cream. Slowly, he pumped one finger inside of her, a second one joining the first in a rhythm that seemed to delicate to undo her, but she was being unlaced anyway. Hissing in a breath, she begged for more, thrusting her hips against the palm of his hand, and he teased her with an agony. She would make him go faster; she kissed the juncture of his shoulder and neck and nipped at it with her teeth, scraping at the skin, and he groaned loudly and suddenly, aroused beyond control.

He was losing it. Losing his sanity, losing his cool, losing the malevolence that kept her away from him and kept him effectively away from her. Desperation replaced taunting as her daring little teeth swept at his throat like a kitten's, her tongue and teeth undoing him in a thousand different ways. She knew what he was and instead of loathing him for it, she turned the tables on him. She embraced his vampirism and used it against him, turning him into a raving lunatic, mad with desire. He'd never wanted anyone like he wanted her, if only because she was the most original creature he'd ever known. More magnificent than Drusilla - and he was almost afraid of thinking that.

Raspberry lips stained his throat with her juices, coloring his throat a soft mulberry with her lipstick, and Spike actually whimpered, hating how she could make him lose himself so easily. His fingers circled her clitoris, so hard and so aroused that he almost felt warm with the stolen blood that pumped through his veins. He was shocked by the heat that flooded through him and around him, as though he was borrowing blaze, and she was burned clay in the sculpture of a beautiful girl. She lavished attention on his jugular, and she cried out when he finally touched the swollen berry between her legs, her head tossing back an arch of colors, and her teeth nipped the underside of his chin. "Oh, Christ!" Spike cried out, his other hand grabbing her hair in a needy attempt to still his arousal for just a few moments longer.

The downpour of water continued, showering them both with liquefied diamonds, and Buffy thrust her hips in rhythm with his fingers, feeling herself nearing orgasm, nearing climax, all from the combination of the taste of his skin and the way that his cool fingers rotated the bundle of nerves that demanded his touch. She was going insane, and his fingers flew with a frenzy, as she bit down on his hardened male nipple, deriving a hiss from the vampire she'd grown so attached to in the course of a couple of days.

Suddenly, in the flash of lightning, he'd pulled his hand away, roughly turning her to the wall, and her hair trailed behind her in a banner of blues and reds, like a tarnished flag. "Now," he said, his voice broken and shaking from the power of his desire. "Right *now*." With that, he undid the fly of his jeans, and she followed suit, yanking down her pants and panties, smelling the salty aroma of her own arousal like a marsh in summer. She was shaking, quaking from arousal, and her lower lip trembled as it only did when she was on the verge of tears or climax. White light flickered again, and she saw the look of frenzied need in his eyes, and she kissed him as he lifted her up against the bricks. Threading her arms and legs around him, Buffy kissed him, soaking strands of dyed hair clinging to both her skin and his.

A scream shattered the air and was swallowed by thunder when he entered her, hard and thick, cool skin underlined with the heat of his borrowed blood, and she gasped, eyes wide and alert with the force of his thrusts. The angle of his cock hit her clitoris as he pumped in and out of her, and she suddenly felt his cock slide inside of her, brushing the sensitive spot inside of her that made her want to melt with arousal. Elusive and real, a place that only she knew about and Spike had almost instinctively found. The satin that bound her breasts heightened the heat that had been released, and she arched her body against his, drowning her screams in his mouth as he thrust in and out of her. She suddenly came with a fury, biting down hard on his lower lip as she climaxed, making them both taste his blood.

Frenetic pulsing surrounded his cock as her orgasm hit, and the spasms tugged at him insistently. The pleasure-pain of her bite brought him over the precipice, and he followed her swiftly, merely seconds behind her hard orgasm. Groaning with a strangled insanity, Spike threw his head back when he came, hips pulsing inside of her, and he came so hard that his knees trembled under her meager weight. Rain shot down the hard angles of his razor- sharp face, and she cupped the nape of his neck with her fingertips, softly massaging the nape of his neck as he emptied himself inside of her, sighing out a nonexistent breath from their coupling.

Slowly, tremulously, he pulled out of her and lowered her to the ground, both drenched beyond belief, and she was nearly panting with the exertion and unabashed passion of their coupling. Water clung to her eyelashes as she looked up at him, and he braced himself against the wall, his lungs panting dead breaths in a parody of respiration, pressing his forehead to hers. She found herself locked in the tired eyes of the blond vampire, usually so dangerous, now exhausted and tired, and she did what she thought she'd never do.

Sweetly, she kissed him, dragging her lower lip against his, and her carmine fingertips traced the sharp line of his jaw, smiling a little at him with the old innocence of who she once had been. Startled, Spike looked at her, and he found himself almost laughably mad when he thought that he might be falling in love with her. "You know, I hate you too much to let you go," he said, and Buffy just chuckled at that breathlessly, her mouth twisted in a cynical smile.

"Well, if you can't spend the end of the world with someone you love, you may as well spend it with someone you hate," she finally decided, and he laughed at that. She ducked down, picking up his black tee shirt and handing it to him, soggy and drenched from the steady flow of rain. "So don't leave me."

When he spoke, it was with a strangled earnestness. "I don't think I could leave you," he said, and she shivered at that, at the frightening prospect of actually falling in love with this monster.

"No," she whispered. "I don't think I could either."

And they stared at each other, helpless in the idea that they were all that was left.


(end part seven)


Continued in Part Eight

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