WARNING: This story is rated NC-17. NC-17 means no one under the age of 18 may read it, according to the LAW.
You can have the hate that it brings.
You can have my absence of faith.
You can have my everything
Help me, tear down my reason.
Help me, it's your sex i can smell.
Help me, you make me perfect.
Help me become somebody else
The door to the crypt burst open with a resounding crash that could only herald the arrival of the Slayer.
Without taking his eyes off the TV screen, Spike tapped a smoke free from his pack and lit it, taking a long, deep drag, as if he had all the time in the world, and exhaled languorously.
“What are you doing here?” he asked moodily. “Aren’t you the one, told me to stay away from you?”
She didn’t answer, and after a long moment, he lolled his head to the side to look at her, feeling a strange mixture of annoyance and curiosity.
“What, no snippy retort?”
He took one look at her and knew it was bad. Not as if he didn’t know that already; Christmas Eve and she was here seeking the company of the evil dead instead of snuggling up on the couch with her Scooby Gang, drinking hot cider and watching some nice and inevitably hokey old Christmas movie? Didn’t take a genius to figure that one.
She still didn’t say anything; just looked at him with those huge hazel eyes that held so many conflicting emotions that he could never puzzle them all out—at least, not anymore. Not since he’d become part of her emotional juggling act. He thought they might sit there that way, staring at each other in silence all night, when at last, she turned and shut the door, and wonder of wonders, walked over and stood next to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re watching ‘A Christmas Story’?” she asked, her nose wrinkling in disbelief as she came into view of the television screen.
“No,” he said quickly, standing up and shutting off the tube. “I was… changing channels right before you walked in.”
She gave him a look that told him she clearly didn’t buy it, and he shrugged, slightly pleased with the faint smile he’d won from her. And then he frowned again—beetling his brow more than was strictly necessary –as he recalled he was angry with her for shutting him out.
“Is that a Christmas tree?”
He moved to block her view, leaning his upper body into her line of vision. “Buffy,” he said, trying to claim her attention. She focused on him, and he raised his brows at her. “What are you doing here?”
She looked down at her feet as if they suddenly interested her immensely, and watched as they shuffled in a nervous dance seemingly performed of their own free will. “I was just, you know, passing by.”
“Right.” He eyed her knowingly. “On Christmas Eve. ‘Cause you don’t have any family or friends or anything better to do.”
“Well, you know those wacky vamps,” she said, attempting humor. “Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor Christian holidays...” She met his eyes tentatively and wondered what he was thinking. On the one hand, she wasn’t sure, herself, why she’d come here. On the other, she thought she knew exactly why. But that was something she didn’t want to talk about right now… or ever, really.
He rolled the cigarette between his fingers to put it out and dropped it to the floor. Then, tilting his head to one side, he studied her curiously, and as she watched, his expression softened, opening to her like a book eager to be read. “Must be tough,” he said, almost questioning. “First Christmas without your mum.”
How did he do it, turn on a dime like that? One moment belligerent, surly and sarcastic, the next completely caring, supportive and insightful. She thought back to earlier in the day, Willow and Dawn so awkward and barely talking to each other, trying to pretend that everything was fine as they wrapped presents and baked cookies, chattering at Buffy a mile a minute as if all the things they were sweeping under the rug would escape if they shut up for one moment. Not that they were fooling anyone. Willow was baking cookies, for Christ’s sake. Okay, yeah, it was Christmas, and baking cookies was something a lot of people did for the holiday, but Willow was baking whole shipments of cookies. Entire fleets of cookies. And when Willow baked that many cookies, it meant something was really bad. And with Dawn’s arm still in a sling, it didn’t take much to figure out what, exactly.
And then Buffy had made the mistake of trying to lighten things by making a quip about using the cookies for extra weapons since they had so many of them, and she guessed she’d come off sounding a little harsh, the way she did so often these days, because that had been met with a flinch and a guilty grimace, and Willow had gone silent after that, baking with a solitary vengeance. And then Dawn had gotten all sniffly about Mom not being there and Buffy had wanted Mom to be there just as much as Dawn did, but somehow it didn’t come out that way, because she hadn’t been able to handle the burden of Dawn’s emotions on top of trying to handle her own and it had gotten ugly from there, ending with Dawn flouncing off to her room in a screeching fury. After that, she’d had to get out of the house for a while. Somewhere less… tense. No, she didn’t really belong in a cold, dark crypt on Christmas Eve, and that was a good thing, but somehow… it wasn’t, because she did belong at home and things were even darker and colder there.
She bit down on her lower lip and folded her arms over her chest, tensing even as she looked away again. “Yeah.” The word was quiet and taut with emotion: sadness, uncertainty, bitterness, confusion. She hated the way it fell from her lips; felt so weak and deserving of loathing.
“Well… not much in the way of Christmas spirit here, but if you want…” he made a vague, self-conscious gesture that meant she was welcome to stay, looking at her uncertainly, like he always did when he was trying to be kind, as if he wanted to say more but was afraid to. Afraid of what she might say back. And why not? He had plenty of reasons to be.
He should have been the one thing she didn’t have to worry about, or feel guilty about. He should have been, but he wasn’t. And sometimes she hated him for it.
She stared into his deep blue eyes, so clear, so open and exposed for her. The eyes are the window to the soul... except that vampires didn't have souls. He could almost fool her though. Almost. Whatever Spike had in there, it was deep and complex, vulnerable and earnest—and sexy, don't forget sexy. God he confused her, and it wasn't just the overwhelming case of hormones she suffered whenever she was around him. It was the range and depth of emotion.
He could love; she had seen it in his eyes when he had moved inside her. It often lit his face like a candle, and sometimes it warmed her, but other times it burned too bright and she wanted to snuff it out and stomp on it so that it could never be lit again. He could hurt; she had seen it in his face when she lashed out and cut him with her fist or her tongue. And when she did that, his face didn't just fall; it crumbled to the ground in a cloud of dust that choked and blinded, obscuring everything but its ruination. Entire civilizations rose and fell behind those eyes, and she didn’t want to see that, didn’t want to know. She wanted… God, what did she want?
She knew what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to talk about her problems. Didn’t want him looking at her like this, all soft and sad for her. Anything to make him stop looking at her like that, making her believe that he really cared about her. How could he? She didn’t even care… why else would she be here? She came here to forget… and when he looked at her like that, she couldn’t stop herself from remembering, couldn’t make the pain go away. She needed him to stop this, needed him to make her stop, like he had that night in the house, when everything had fallen apart and she’d finally found the only thing that made her forget, the only thing that made her feel alive.
He was soft in all the wrong places... she didn’t want soft. She wanted him hard; calloused hands roaming over her roughly, searing, bruising mouth crushed to hers as he devoured her, the full hardness of him sliding in and out of her with exquisite friction, her body pressed against cold stone that scraped her skin deliciously with each thrust and stroke. She wanted to take and be taken, forgetting herself and leaving all the tortured questions reflected in his eyes for another day. Possibly never. She wanted to lose herself, forget who she was, pretend she was someone else for just a little while… something… anything to make this horrible, empty feeling go away… even for just a little while.
“I didn’t come to talk,” she said, taking a step toward him.
He sensed the sudden change in her, and in response his own posture loosened, relaxing, yet somehow becoming more predatory at the same time. He knew what she wanted now, why she’d come here. He’d have liked to say he was disappointed, that he wished she’d come there to be with him—and he was, and he did—but somehow, he just couldn’t be sorry for it. He loved her, and he knew she only came to him to forget, that she would never love him in return… but she needed this, and he would have crawled over miles of broken glass in the midday sun of the Sahara with only a cactus to wear for cover to get her a glass of water if she’d batted her eyes and asked him to. Actually, that wasn’tquite true—she wouldn’t have had to bat her eyes. So if this were all she wanted from him, he would gladly give it. And he’d have a damned good time doing it. His gaze roved over her body in anticipation, remembering the last time... Lord, she was like a dive into the wild. Divine and ferocious, soft and hard, furious and tender. He couldn’t have withheld what she asked of him even if he had wanted to.
“So…” he cocked his head to one side, running his tongue over his lower lip as he ravaged her with his eyes. “What does Buffy want for Christmas, then?”
At the low, sexy, suggestive tone of his voice, she felt an electric shock shoot up from between her legs and race through her belly, leaving her weak in the knees. Her heart pounded and she shivered, feeling that good, deep-down tingle start in the pit of her stomach, and the chafing of her hardened nipples against her shirt was nothing compared to the sudden, yearning ache that spread from her clit, so taut and—God she was so ready for him, already.
She might not have admitted to herself what she’d wanted when she’d come here, but her body had known all along. Had it really been only one month ago that she’d sworn this off, sworn him off? A month of nights she’d spent surrounded by the sickening, overpowering stench of garlic, her hands thrust between her legs as she stretched and strained, panting in the darkness, fingers soaked and scalded by heat as she’d come again and again, remembering the feel of his hands on her, the feel of him inside her with a secret shame in her heart that only made her get off even harder. She felt the heat of memory snaking through her even now, making her heart pound, making her breath come faster, playing her body like a well trained instrument in the hands of a master musician…
She grit her teeth, and somehow, with a monumental effort, managed to wrench her eyes from his. No, no, no! This is wrong! All wrong! Terribly, horribly, not-all-the-hail-Mary’s-in-the-world-could-atone-for-this wrong.
And that’s exactly why it’s so fucking hot.
God she was weak… and she really wanted to be disgusted with herself, but found she hardly cared, could hardly find the strength to care about anything, these days. What did she want for Christmas? Nothing… everything. She wanted her mother back, her youth, her life, peace of mind, love, happiness; she wanted to undo the last six years of her life, go back to being a simple girl of fifteen, back before she’d become the Slayer, before she’d known how hard life could be, before she’d known how much it would wear her down. She wanted her mom to hug her, kiss her goodnight, yell at her, even throw her out of her house again, anything, if only she could see her again. She wanted Dawn to be able to take care of herself, to be happy, to find her own way to happiness, because God knew Buffy couldn’t help her right now. Buffy couldn’t even help herself. She wanted Giles back. She wanted Angel back. She wanted something, anything, anyone to hold onto. She wanted a reason to live. She wanted a normal life. She wanted to die…
The thought hung there like a specter in the gloom of her mind. It was true. She wanted to die, and instead of having the guts to just end it all, she was here, fucking an undead monster—a creature whose very species it was her sacred duty to kill—trying to forget her life. What kind of twisted freak was she?
She choked back a sob and knew instantly that had been a mistake. She could almost feel his chin come up, and she knew if she looked at him now he’d have that look like a wounded puppy, big, soulful eyes apologizing and loving her, begging for a way to make it better. He’d be soft again, and God, she didn’t want that, couldn’t stand that.
“Buffy…” his voice was a ragged whisper, half apology; half desire; all raw emotion.
She felt his fingers touch her cheek, brushing away the lone tear that traveled down the curve of her cheekbone, just the faintest of feathery touches, as if he feared any more would break her. Damn him! How could he be so gentle? Didn’t he know he was evil? And she didn’t deserve gentleness, didn’t deserve kindness.
Anger rose, swelling and breaking like a tidal wave inside her. Was this what she’d been reduced to? Depending on the love of a soulless, evil creature to make her feel as if she had some value?
She brought her head up, eyes hard as steel, and punched him in the face as hard as she could.
He reeled away, holding his nose, blue eyes so surprised and hurt, and oh, he looked like a little boy—
She hit him again.
“What the bloody—“
And at last he snarled, his face seeming to melt like wax, features running and reforming into a mask of vicious animal rage.
“You want it like that, do you?”
He launched himself at her and she fell to the floor beneath him, the breath rushing from her lungs as he landed atop her, crushing her with all his weight, his misshapen face bare inches from hers, yellow eyes burning with savage, primal lust. For a moment she was actually scared, Slayer instincts kicking in, struggling beneath him. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them to floor above her head with one hand and rolled his hips into hers with a hard, shuddering thrust.
She gasped and stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “No…” she pleaded, but there was no strength in the protest, and if she begged of anyone, it was of herself to stop this madness. She closed her eyes and rolled her head to the side, lifting her hips to meet his, grinding herself against him. All her reasoning, all her logic went up like kindling as her body caught fire, and she no longer cared about any of it—just this, only this, exactly like this; it was beyond her control, beyond her responsibility. She could feel the sorrow slipping away, the tattered and torn memories fading, scattered like ashes on the wind, and he was the spark that made her flare to life; he was the source of their destruction.
She felt his other hand grab her fiercely, fingers so rough against the smooth skin of her jaw as he twisted her face up to look at him. “Look at me,” he demanded in a heated whisper. Obediently, she opened her eyes. His visage was still that of a vampire, all rage and animal passion, and she felt a secret, guilty thrill run through her at the sight. “Is this what you want?” he asked forcefully, jerking her wrists for emphasis, slamming his hips against hers again.
She gave a low moan and tried to turn her head, but he held her still, fingers pressing deeply into her face. When she didn’t immediately answer, he let go, his hand sliding down her neck to her breast, taking one rock-hard nipple between his fingertips, squeezing and twisting it, the pleasure and pain making her gasp, sparks shooting through her body like wildfire. She arched her body against him, given over completely to him now, gasping and grinding against him with wild, desperate abandon.
He grabbed her face with one hand again, forcing her to look at him. “Is this what you want?” he asked again, yellow eyes—the eyes of a predator—seeming to burn right through her.
“Yes... Oh… please, yes…” she moaned through swollen, parted lips, turning her face just enough to catch his thumb between her teeth, swirling her tongue over it once and then letting her lips close around it, suckling for a moment before biting down again, harder.
He took a hissing breath, body stiffening, and then kissed her savagely, and she could feel the vampire teeth behind his lips as he bore down against hers. He opened his mouth and she rose to meet him, touching his sharp canine teeth with the tip of her tongue as she slid it into his mouth. She moaned through the kiss, feeling an eager rush of wetness between her thighs, incredibly turned on. He couldn’t really bite her, of course, but oh it was hot to think that at any moment, he could move and sink those teeth into the flesh of her neck and there’d be almost nothing she could do about it, and she shouldn’t be thinking that, shouldn’t dare be thinking that but oh, God he felt so good…
And then he broke the kiss, trailing his tongue down her neck, nipping sharply with his teeth until her breath came in panting gasps and tiny mewls, and she was on fire, she was drowning, she was dying, lost in the sensations he created inside her. He lowered his head further and took her nipple between his teeth through the thin material of her shirt and she cried out with the pleasure of it, feeling slick wetness rush from her in a flood, the burning ache between her legs beginning to surge with increasing need. She thrust her hips against him harder, searching for the hardness of him, wanting to rub herself against him, against anything, needing to feel the satisfaction of something against her… but he evaded her, pulling his hips away teasingly, leaving her unsatisfied.
Frustrated, she tried to free her hands, but he drew up from her breast and leaned his weight on the hand pinning down her wrists.
“Do you want me, Slayer?”
She made a strangled sound in her throat, only wanting him to keep touching her, anything if he would only keep touching her, and she knew she could take him but she didn’t want to because she couldn’t be the one to do this, oh no, not her and oh, she didn’t want to answer him but if she didn’t then she would have to take control and do it and—
“Yes!” she cried, hardly conscious that the word had escaped her lips, though she uttered it with the sincerity of every fiber in her being.
He half slid off her, one hand still holding her hands above her head, one leg draped over both of hers, pinning them down with his weight. Dipping his mouth to her nipple again, he slipped one hand inside her jeans, cupping her mound possessively with a light squeeze. Buffy bucked and writhed beneath him, rocking her hips in a frantic rhythm, begging with half-spoken incoherent pleas, and at last he relented, pressing one finger down between her hot, swollen lips.
She cried out, almost sitting up with the force of the contractions that racked her body as he stroked her clit in hard, fast circles, and when he stopped for an instant to lightly pinch the tender bud and roll it between his fingers, she nearly sobbed with pleasure, her head feeling like it was exploding with the rapture that ripped through her, every nerve alive and trembling with pleasure unimagined.
His vampire face slipped from him and Spike bit down so hard on his lower lip that he drew blood, gazing on her face with rapturous adoration. It was all he could do not come right then and there as he watched her face contort with the intense pleasure he was giving her.
“I don’t think there’s a sweeter sight in this world than watching you come, Slayer,” he whispered in her ear and then slid one finger deep inside her. God, she was drenched. He closed his eyes as he fought for control, breathing heavily.
Buffy thrashed and begged even more, only now she was pleading with him to stop because the pleasure was too much. He grinned cruelly and let his finger slide from inside her, letting it glide, slick and hot, over her inner lips to the top, where he traced lazy circles over her clit.
Her eyes flew open, wide and incoherent, and he could see that she was about to come again, and he wanted to be inside her when it happened. He pulled his hand free, and she moaned in abandonment, her hips thrusting at the empty air with need.
An instant later he was ripping her jeans off, shredding her soaked panties in his hurry to remove them. He didn’t bother to pull off her shirt as he rolled on top of her, shoving it up with one hand as he slid into her, and oh… it was like sliding into heaven. God she was so hot, so wet and eager as she clenched her tight muscles around him, almost finishing him then and there. He lay still for a moment, fighting for control, using his weight to keep her pinned against the floor, preventing her from moving against him.
Buffy thrashed her head back and forth against the hard stone, her whole world nothing but this single, exquisite moment as he slid inside her, so incredibly hard and wide, stretching her inner walls with a tension that was so very, very sweet. Her every breath was drawn with a ragged moan, and she struggled to rock her hips against him, wanting so badly to feel him slide in and out of her, filling her, taking her, fucking her. Her world was his hands on her breasts, fingertips lightly kneading her nipples, twisting and rolling them, making her gasp and shudder and nearly cry with pleasurable, building tension, and when at last he began to move, thick cock thrusting, pushing, pulling and teasing her relentlessly, hips rolling and rocking with increasing rhythm as his body slammed deliciously against hers, pushing against her clit with every thrust, her world went away all together, swept aside and shattered into a million pieces by an orgasm that exploded and tore through her with merciless, unending pleasure. Her heart pounded in her ears so loudly that she couldn’t hear her own screams, and she was everywhere, she was everything, she was… she was beautiful and perfect and… oh God, was there anything sweeter than this?
Spike watched her as she began to come, feeling her hot muscles clamp down on him with indescribable pleasure, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He picked up his rhythm, driving into her with strokes that filled her body to its limit, faster and faster, loving the feel of her sweet, slick muscles as they tightened and fluttered around him, teasing him with wicked sensations as her arms and legs wrapped around his body in a convulsing grip, nails raking his back, drawing blood as she rose to meet him thrust for thrust so slippery and hot and wet and tight and oh, Christ she was so fucking hot—
He stiffened and shuddered as he fought for breath, hissing pleasure as he erupted inside her, surge after surge of spiraling ecstasy drawn from him as he cried out her name and she writhed beneath him, contracting around him, possessing him, owning him, making him beg and swear and nearly cry with the sheer, raw exquisiteness of it all, and for an instant, he thought he might die from the pleasure she was bringing him.
They rode out the final waves for what felt like eternity, poised on the edge of the other side of pleasure until at last the tremors began to subside in both of them, cries softening to moans and then to heavy breaths, and he held her tight against him, barely moving inside of her, wanting to draw this out and make it last forever. He gave a final shiver of pleasure and let his head fall to her chest, wondering if she would let him rest there.
Sated, Buffy drifted on the afterglow of pleasure toward the edge of sleep, the world seeming hazy and far away. It was almost like heaven had been, this moment afterward… like nirvana… like perfection and light and warmth and… peace.
For a long time, they lay there, drifting, saying nothing, and at last Buffy’s breath evened out, becoming slower and deeper, her body relaxing as sleep claimed her in a gentle embrace.
Spike raised his head to look at her, surprised somehow to find her fast asleep. Her brow was smooth and untroubled, and a faint half-smile still curled at the corner of her lips. She looked restful, more at peace than he had seen her since she’d come back from the grave. Gently, very gently so as not to wake her, he leaned down and kissed her smile.
“I’d do anything for you, Buffy, you know that,” he whispered quietly to her, knowing she couldn’t hear him. He knew she couldn’t stand it when he showed her how much he really cared for her. He also knew this moment of peace wasn’t likely to last; tomorrow she’d probably be back to hating him and telling him to go away. But right now, he didn’t care. Right now, she was here, a goddess asleep and alive in his arms, and he could speak his heart to her without fear.
“I love you.”
Church bells began to ring in the distance, chiming Silent Night and signaling to all that midnight had arrived.
He hadn’t gotten her a present, of course. Had known she wouldn’t accept it. And she would likely die before she’d admit he was enough of a part of her life to warrant something as personal as a gift. But that was all right…
He kissed her mouth again and laid his cheek against hers, knowing that soon he would have to move, but not now… not yet. For just a moment more, he could pretend she was his, and she could sleep, safe and warm and momentarily at peace.
They’d given each other something, after all.