All About Spike

By Klytaimnestra

Disclaimer: Thanks be to the Joss. The Joss is good. In the footsteps of the Joss do we gratefully warm ourselves, nor expect we thanks or remuneration. (Though feedback would be nice ...)

The lights make her look deader than I am. It's not just the lights, either. I make a joke of it but it's frightening. I don't know why she's choosing death. Been there. Am there. Believe me, it's not the best option. Lover, you're supposed to be the living one.

I prod her a little, try to get her mad, anything to wake her up, see a spark in her eye. Nothing. She brushes me off, I'm barely there, a small irritant. A mosquito buzzing by her ear. I've been buried so deep in her I lost myself, my breath in her ear whispering so wet, so hot, so tight, oh God, Buffy, my love my heart, I don't know what I say then, feeling her wriggling and moaning against me, her nails in my back, gasping my name, Spike so hard oh right there yes oh faster again please oh once more please, her legs wrapped tight around my hips, her pussy squeezing my cock until I can't hold off any longer, exploding inside her till I see stars, if I had to breathe I'd pass out from ecstasy, from the sheer pleasure and because it feels real, so real, she's really with me. Almost. Never quite, to be honest. Not yet. But so close. I try to hold off but every time I hope, this time. Surely she'll feel it, this time. And when she comes to me I can't resist trying again.

And then I come by to see her and I'm a minor annoyance, a stinging insect, I barely register on her radar. It drives me mad. I want to say, Slayer, do you remember anything? My tongue on your clit, holding your hips, drinking from you like a chalice, drunk with your smell, your taste, you weeping, slick with sweat, your seventh climax or was it your eighth, begging me to stop, oh God Spike I can't, not again, then in your next breath begging me to fuck you, right now please I can't stand it, right NOW, and your gasp of release and pleasure and wonder when my cock slides into you again for another ride, yet another position you've never tried, really makes me wonder if Riley actually had a broomstick up his ass and couldn't bend ... that was the day before yesterday, Slayer. You, warm and gasping and naked in my arms. Me, my cock, my hands, my lips, my tongue, opening you more than you want to believe now. Have you forgotten already?

She's brushing me off again and I get desperate. Does she need money? I can get her money. It's easy enough, I never need much, but if that's what she wants, hell, I can find it. Anything's better than this job. It'll drain the life out of her. Doesn't she see what it's done to the rest of them? No dice, though, she doesn't want my money, she doesn't want my anything. Except my cock, from time to time. I get desperate, I grab her arm. Bad move, now she's pissed. This place is killing you, I say. She doesn't want to know. Shakes me off and hides inside the shop.

I know I've got a temper. Hell, I'm evil, of course I've got a temper. I have what these days they call impulse control issues. But I do pretty well, I don't vault the counter and grab her. I don't even kick out any windows on the way out. I go home, break some furniture, go out and pick fights with a big demon or two, come back towards morning a little scratched up but not much the worse for wear. Advantage to living in a graveyard, all the violence I want right on my doorstep, and nothing the Slayer would object to, either. All the casualties are bad guys. Maybe someday I'll be one of them. Not sure she'd even shed a tear.

I would have died for her. Wished I had, for months. Now - sometimes I still wish I had.

I polish off the rest of my bourbon and stumble into bed around dawn. Another night in the lively undead social whirl. Don't know how I stand the excitement.

I wake up determined I'm going to let her stew. She wants to die by inches in that miserable hole, coated in grease and wearing a stupid hat, it's her business. She doesn't want my advice or anything else from me. Made that quite clear. She's made her bed and she doesn't want me in it. She can come to me if she wants me, and even then she can bloody well beg. I head down to Willy's for a quiet pint.

But as it happens my route home takes me by the joint, and I'm sure as hell not going in. But it does no harm, I reckon, to look in the window as I pass. Confirm my impression that the place is a dive. See if she's still there, though she shouldn't be, this hour. But I see her through the front window. She's standing there looking so - drained. I've eaten people looked livelier afterwards than she does right then. Buffy, what the hell are you doing to yourself? What self-inflicted penance are you trying for? You can do better than this.

I walk by the side window, it's on my way, and now she's seen me, the moron hat is off and she's run her hand through her hair. There's a spark in her eye now when she looks at me and right away I'm lost. Just seeing me and she looks better than she did. I give her something, life, though damn if I know how. Thought that was her job. But knowing I do something, anything, for her - it's a drug. I'm hooked, I can't leave as long as I seem to be helping any way at all.

Her eyes flick towards the back alley and back to me. Does she want to see me out there? Probably didn't mean anything. I walk around back anyway just to check the place out, make sure there aren't any scary monsters back there to take her by surprise when she leaves tonight. The door opens as I turn the corner. Guess who's slipping out for a breath of air. Though the way the place smells, by the dumpsters and the grease trap, she's almost better off inside.

"Slayer - " I start to say but she holds a finger to her lips and gestures me around the other side of the dumpster, the side you can't see if you're just stepping out the door on a smoke break. I'm hoping I can't guess where this is going. Buffy, good God, don't reduce us to this. But she follows me around the corner and slides one hand under my shirt.

She smells of grease. It doesn't matter. It isn't even me she wants. Just a little comfort in her bleak and barren day. That matters. That matters a lot. "Buff-" I start to protest, and I begin to pull away. She shakes her head and takes my hand. She puts it under her ugly polyester uniform, on the warm soft skin of her belly. Even under the grease I can smell her fragrance. Deep, spicy, cinnamon and cut grass, I can't describe it. It's faint now because she's so tired, but it's not gone. Not entirely. My mouth is dry. "Buffy - " I say again, but she looks up at me. A little line forms between her eyebrows, that line of distress. She's desperate for any contact at all.

I start to shake my head. This isn't good. Let me take you away from here. Let me rescue you. Let me spring you from your self-imposed prison, lover, don't ask me to just fuck you through the bars. But she slides both hands under my shirt and speaks for the first time. The only time.

"My break is over in ten minutes."

Her hand hovers over my belt buckle and she looks up at me, waiting for my consent. I raise my eyebrows, is this really what you want, Slayer? But her hand doesn't move away, she just waits for me to agree. She looks so lost. So miserable. I can't deny her the only comfort she'll take from me. I swallow and nod. She peels my jeans down around my hips and steps out of one leg of the hideous orange plastic trousers. So much for foreplay. I'm amazed I'm hard. Hard enough, at least. But even at lowest ebb, she's still my woman. Still the one who does it for me.

She pushes her underwear aside instead of taking it off. She likes it that way, I found out the first night. It rubs against the right spot I think. She steadies herself against the wall, holding my shoulders for support, and I lean against the wall with one hand and I bend my knees and enter her.

She's not that hot, the way she gets when she's really engorged and ready for me, and I can tell right away that she's not going to make it, not this time. But this is about comfort, not orgasm. I do my best to make it as good as I can for her, quiet and comfortable. It's an awkward position which doesn't help. She doesn't seem to mind, though she doesn't seem to really be into it either. I look into her eyes at one point and she pulls away a little, like she doesn't want to be reminded where she is or what she's doing or who she's doing it with, and looks away from me, enjoying the sensation without really participating.

I don't want to be reminded of where I am either. If she were anyone else I'd pull out and say, look, honey, another time okay? And I don't know that there'd be another time. But it's her. And she thinks she needs it. It's the only thing she'll take from me. And I can't deny her. I haven't the strength.

I feel like I'm watching the woman I love drowning, going down for the third time, right before my eyes. And I'm throwing her the only lifeline I've got. Catch it, lover, please.

I just hope we don't both go under.

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