Written: March 19th, 2003
This was originally written in response to Wisteria’s “Make
Smut, Not War” challenge for LiveJournal Buffy writers. This is my first NC-17
fic. The concept is dark, but not unsatisfying, I hope.
Early season 7, any time between BY & Him. Responses are welcome and
His hands roamed over her hips as
she rocked forward, and Buffy threw her head back to stare starry-eyed at the
ceiling. God, this was perfect—everything she needed was here, in the tips of
his fingers and the art of his tongue. This was her coming-home. To have him
again—inside her, around her, above or below it didn’t matter because he was there,
cock and chest and arms and neck, waiting on her as only Spike could.
Wandering lonely halls had led her
to him again, but he was different from the first moment. He was nervous and
apologetic, but flirty too. His eyes were clear and his walk made her heart
race again, like the day he’d walked into her house and Spike was back,
cool and focused and holding her torch. When he’d touched her face tonight
she’d broken, pushing him down and asking for that thing, the thing that
had hurt them so much but could make everything right again, because she really
wanted him, and he had a soul, and it was ok now.
I need you.
His eyes were the same blue as the
last time she’d twisted down him onto the cement, forced him to talk while they
touched. The basement was dirty and Spike was dirty but she remembered what
dirty felt like. She knew with every inhalation that this could be their world
again, fading to familiar with kisses and caresses. Crates were mausoleums,
cabinets were gravestones, the shreds of a blanket rubbed like crabgrass under
her knees as she worked his zipper and he made a timid joke about timing.
She’d giggled a bit, smiled for him and started to reply but then he was free,
hard in her hands and her lips had other uses than talking.
Cool and long in her mouth, just
like she remembered, and to have him moaning again, the best sort of moans, was
all she needed in the world. Not long and he was pulling at her, bringing her
forward and dodging her mouth to assault her neck. He lapped up her sweat and
she sank onto him, too anxious to wait anymore.
Up and down her world spun; laugh
and cry and scream blended together. This was her place, this was her self,
this was what Buffy the Slayer wanted to live for. Spike squirmed and bucked
beneath her, told her she was the sun and came when she squeezed. His hands
wandered from her hips to her cunt and she was screaming too, fingers fisted
into his chest while pushed and pulled until everything of his was hers and
hers was his.
Downward she drifted, caressing his
hair and his face. Look at me she pleaded silently, and was rewarded with
unblinking cerulean. “That was wonderful,” she whispered into his cheek,
smiling between butterfly kisses. “I missed you so much; I needed you so bad.”
Spike smiled softly in return, and
palms drifted to cup her face. Lips to forehead, to nose, and then blue met
green and he grinned impishly. “Carrey-Ann danced the Maypole with the girls,
and but I couldn’t go talk to them.” A sly wink, “T’wasn’t proper, t’wasn’t
right, and boys go to hell for staring too long at white dresses.”
A moment of slow creeping dread and
Buffy jerked her face from Spike's palms as if acid had come between every
place their bodies met. He grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her forward
again, nose to nose.
“I’ve got a pocket full of posies
for you, pretty warm girl, but you can’t go back out in the dark. Hurts in the
dark. Why are you crying?”
A strangled scream erupted from
Buffy as she fumbled backwards, tearing easily away from her madman’s soft
hands. He watched her go and tears began for him too, just seeing hers. He
leaped to his feet, naked thin, and demanded she stop because he didn’t want to
cry. She’d said it was wonderful, hadn’t she? She said everything would be
okay, that he was better. But she did nothing grab at clothes and trip over
boxes in the dark, while the smell of sex and tears and fear and shame
overwhelmed his tastes and thoughts till he could perceive nothing else.
Why, why? He’d done what she’d
wanted; she was supposed to keep him warm and make it good again. But the girl
was leaving, the girl was crying, the girl was finished there. And when he
grabbed her hand, she looked at him, sobbed that word——the word of tearing/screaming/white/pain/cold/stop/tile/need/screaming——and
begged his forgiveness.