And once again she marvelled at the gentleness in him. This beautiful demon. Passionate, demanding, straightforward, tender. Dangerous.
She shouldn’t let herself forget that, though she often did. She tried to drive the thought into her head. He’s a killer. And God knows how many people, innocents…tearing their throats out, drenching himself in their sticky blood. All for him, all for pleasure and immediate satisfaction. Him getting off on it….
And him never offering her a guarantee that he wouldn’t do it again.
"I’ll try," he had said. That was all.
Strong fingers stroking her hair now, threading their way through the golden tendrils, grazing her neck. And she leaned into him, as she did at the slightest touch from him. How many delicate necks had snapped under those hands? How many poor, naïve girls had fallen for his beauty and died because of it?
A hundred…a thousand…a thousand thousand…
He was as covered in blood as she was in dust.
And she loved him.
Every time she looked at him, watched him move in his lethal catlike grace, she felt herself burning, overwhelmed. The pain of it was intense and sweet, and every muscle in her body contracted and remained on edge. And the only thing she could do, the only cure for this awful fever, was to have his cool hands on her skin, soothing her heat. Still, never enough.
They never spoke much after sex. It was too difficult, too much to acknowledge. More than intense enough just to lie there, arms draped across each other, lost in thought and the question that suffused every motion, every touch they shared.
He felt her arm wrap around him, pulling him closer to her. And every time she touched him, he felt amazement. The Slayer, my Slayer, touching me, wanting me. Needing my hands on her. It couldn’t be real, it wasn’t happening. He was somewhere else, floating and watching.
He was someone else.
At first he had blamed that flaming chip in his brain. Turned him into a right pansy, that did, left him susceptible. Stupid Initiative bastards had cocked up everything, made him work for the good guys, demanded that he be what he wasn’t, and when he found them, he’d…..
What? He hadn’t bloody well done anything, and the damn piece of metal had been gone for months now. He told himself sometimes, "Oh, yeah. One of these days I’ll go out and have a laugh, find a bunch of Bronze kiddies and tear them open. Pop their ripe veins like pixie sticks." Actually he told himself that a lot.
And never did it.
He couldn’t really work up the desire for anything but….more of her. A flood of tastes and scents that assailed him constantly. Even when she wasn’t near him, he could feel her on his tongue and in his nostrils. She was life, and he was borrowing it from her.
He brought his hand up, dragging it against her skin, and rested it over her heart. Just feeling the still-rapid beating pound into his palm, trail down his arm and into him. Shutting his eyes tighter, he imagined it as his own. He wanted to devour it. Many, many times he had done this, and he wondered if she knew why. He wondered if he knew why. But it was never, ever enough.
So wrong, all of it. That he should love her, killer of his kind, a small creature whose lifetime would be but a moment compared to his. That she should love him back, murderer of hundreds of thousands, a pile of ashes held together by a carnivorous demon. A bloody tragedy waiting to happen. And the bond of pain between them was almost as strong as the passion.
His eyes flickered as he felt her trail a finger across his lips, and then she rested her own there, softly. Lifting toward her, he returned the delicate pressure, feeling her warm breath washing against him in tiny waves. These gentle kisses, they hurt the most. Usually, they attacked each others’ mouths violently, demanding an end to the awful conflagration. Fighting kisses, exuberant and desperate. But the whispering touches, the light, sweet caresses, they hurt like hell. In a horrible, longing pain that he treasured more than anything. For they were…convergent…then. Worlds apart, and exactly the same. Almost, but not quite, two people who deserved to be in love.
He sighed ever so slightly against her mouth. She could feel it, taste everything familiar there, all of her thoughts, and yet, not at all. She responded to his motions as he rolled her fully onto her back, his left arm sneaking behind her head, resting her against the crook of his elbow. God, how could she still want him?
She desired him more every moment, even when they had just finished having sex and she felt a momentary release. It built and built and never ended. His lips descended upon hers tenderly, and she shuddered slightly as his tongue ran across her lower lip.
There was so much that he could do to her now. Evil, soulless demon, right? He could abuse her like Angelus had…but instead he was doing this. Taking her lips against his mouth, softly pressing against them, tasting her gently with his tongue. The pounding ache in her chest, the sob that wanted release…she felt all of it build up inside her as she drowned in his cool and understanding lips.
She absorbed his fluttering, almost intangible kisses as he moved them across her cheek, her jawline, her neck. And she felt his tongue dart out, moist, like condensation from a cooling beverage, tracing slow lines up and down the side of her neck. He was sensing the blood that trembled beneath her skin, she knew. He liked to do it, feel her heartbeat and the blood rushing through her…the blood that he caused to rush through her…exploring it and tantalizing himself through his fingertips and tongue.
She arched her head to the side, allowing him full discovery of what lay beneath her soft skin. It shouldn’t feel this good. I should feel tense, afraid, as this demon tries to sense my life giving blood through my exterior. I shouldn’t feel tight and wet against him, I shouldn’t want him to…
"Do it, Spike," she heard herself whisper as she clutched his lean body to hers.
He brought his head up quickly then, and his lips were right next to her own, parting just slightly. "Buffy?" he asked, eyes roaming over hers, his gaze slightly confused.
"Do it," she said into his lips. "Do what you want to do. I want it, too."
Oh why, Buffy, why, part of her asked herself. Do you really want torture, pain, darkness? Passion, love, fulfillment… Both. But when will it ever be enough?
Her body embraced his, their legs and arms locked around each other, cool chest against warm heaving breasts, heartbeat pulsing against quiet body. And his eyes studied hers, flicking across them, following every shift of her own. Dark, unnatural blue, just a hint of yellow there. The barest flicker of the demon.
"You want…." He trailed off as if afraid to ask, sounding choked, questioning.
"Yes," she murmured against his lips. I do want it, God I do. Take from me, give to me, feel everything I am. Every move against you, every beat of my heart, I want it all to belong to you, too. I want to be satiated. I want the burning to stop.
And she turned her head to the side again, brushing the hair from her shoulder. His mouth was instantly upon her then, tasting the salty, sweaty skin stretched over her neck. She felt his blunt teeth nibble gently there; shallow, cool, unnecessary breaths escaping onto her skin, and his body felt so tight and tense above her that she fought not to strain against him.
Then he opened his mouth against her, and she could feel the sharp incisors gliding easily into her flesh as his hands stilled her shoulders, and the burning as the beads of blood welled up out of her to be taken by his eager throat.
"Oh…fuck…yes…" she practically screamed it as she grasped harshly at his back, trying to pull him even closer. Her legs wrapped themselves around his firm body, rubbing smoothly against him. The touch of his teeth felt light, and his tongue moved slowly against her neck, almost gingerly, as if not wanting to hurt her too much... She grasped the back of his head, fingers threading through the disheveled white hair as she pulled him against her as hard as she could, gasping at the full penetration of his fangs in her throat. At the depth of contact he whimpered against her, his tongue tracing circles on her skin as he pulled her life into his mouth.
Tiny sparks were dancing in front of her eyes, a million explosions at once. She felt light headed, drunk, ecstatic, desperate. One arm wrapped his body tight against hers as the other held his head to her neck, wanting him to feel her, taste everything she had. Everything, Spike, let me convey to you what I can’t in words…
Her legs wrapped around his hips instinctively. She felt him against her, growing hard again, engorged with borrowed blood, pressing up against her parted thighs, her slick entrance. She arched herself into him, and in one swift stroke, impaled herself on his hard shaft as she cried out, sobs strangling her. It was too good, too good, so good it was tearing her in half as she rocked her hips up to meet his over and over again, feeling him more and more erect with stolen warmth as he drained her.
His insistent mouth was straining at her neck, taking just a little with each swallow. And her heart was beating more quickly now, more shallowly. Oh she wanted…..not to want what she wanted. What she wanted was frightening. To taste him, bind herself to him. That cool, sweet blood of his flowing into her, all sadness and intensity, ashes and moonlight. God, she could almost taste it, and she bit down upon her own lip at the idea, breaking the skin just slightly, and imagining that the tangy metallic taste she traced across her tongue was his.
God, she thought. I could die like this and be unafraid, Holding his mouth to my neck, his hard cock pressing into me. I don’t want it to stop, not ever. I’m fucking death, and I want it. The tremors are already raking through me. I want it, want it so much. To be one person, dust and blood, life and death, hatred and love. I want to come into the release I’ll never have. I want the passion to fill me and flood me and drown me. I want him to be me, and me to be him. I want so much…
"Spike," she called out to him through the roar of blood in her head, through the dancing lights before her eyes, through the orgasm that tore through her as if the world was ending. Save me…"Don’t…ever…let…go…"
Was he dead? Not possible, no, death would never bring him desire and heaven. This was…everything. Her blood was sweeter and headier than anything he had ever known, anything he would ever know. Alcohol and honey. It was almost painful to taste. He forced himself to take the intoxicating liquid slowly, not to drive her into unconsciousness, and circled his tongue slowly across her skin as he tried to decipher every nuance of the flavor in his mouth.
The assault on his senses was overpowering. His body moving into hers, each thrust timed to reflect her heartbeat. Scent of rich blood and mingled secretions. Feel of her burning skin and his slightly warming body, stealing heat from her.
He pulled her hand off the back of his head and slammed it against the bed, clasping his fingers around hers as he felt her body begin to spasm beneath his, while still lapping at the wound he had given her neck, and
while still feeling her shuddering body around his hard shaft, clenching against him, drawing him into her.
He moaned into her throat, feeling the tears well up in his eyes. No, nothing should be allowed to feel this good, to taste and smell like this, to be damnation and salvation in one swift stroke. Like her call that reached his ears, a plea never to stop, never let her go, to never be anything but what he was, just for her, and it was wrong, he knew it. He knew it and wouldn’t stop it.
The sob burst forth as he came into her, as he gently pulled his fangs from her neck, and whispered against her that everything would be okay. Even though it never could.
He was speaking softly to her, gently muttering words against her ear, his hand still holding hers, his cool bursts of air caressing her ears, his body still buried in hers. She pulled her hand up and drew his face to meet her own, staring into his indecipherable eyes. She could see her reflection there, and wondered absently if it was possible that he could see himself in her.
"Shhh, love, it’s alright," he whispered to her, dragging a trembling finger across her cheek. His finger glistened wetly in the light from outside. Was she crying? She felt breathless, weightless.
And she clutched him to her, drawing his weight down on her, fingers straining against his tight, pale body, begging him to be just a little closer yet again.
She raised her hand up and rested it against his cheek, watching his eyes on hers as the remnant of a tear trailed down the side of his face.
There was never enough.
Fulfilled, and lost. That unbreakable barrier always between them, even with the last of accessible barriers lifted. It was always as it had been. Everything, nothing, and both.