By Dale Edmonds
If we lived forever, if the dews of Adashino never vanished, if the crematory smoke on Toribeyama never faded, men would hardly feel the pity of things. The beauty of life is in its impermanence. Man lives the longest of all living things... and even one year lived peacefully seems very long. Yet for such as love the world, a thousand years would fade like the dream of one night.
Kenko Yoshida, Essays in Idleness (1330-1332)
She's pretty sure it has something to do with Riley and his little habit. She did pass Psych 101, dead professor and all.
That and a buck'll buy her a cup of coffee.
There's symmetry here, and that's all that matters right now. In her bedroom with the white paneling, the bedspread she's had since she was ten - and a vampire leaning against the wall, looking at her.
Down at her because she's on her knees and his jeans are half-pushed around his hips, god knows how as they're skin tight, but Spike manages. Buttonfly and tiny dark hairs that she buries her face against, breathing in. Her favourite part, the warmth of the crook of thigh and groin, the soft crinkle of hair and all that skin rubbing against her cheek.
Spike's not warm. If she keeps her eyes shut, he feels like Angel. But he smells like Spike, cigarette smoke and unwashed denim, and something different, sweeter, sharper underneath. Not Angel.
He's panting and that makes her smile. Breathing hard just at the sight of her licking his thighs, rubbing her closed lips against him.
Sweat's not beading down his spine, his heart's not racing like hers because he's dead, a corpse with a hard-on, forcing air through his lips because the body remembers. Angel used to make a sound like that, a half-moan when they kissed, and Angel is gone too. She buries her face against Spike, her against silver buttons, worn jeans and velvet-taut skin. She can't see him breathe.
"Slayer," he says, and she likes that. Not Buffy. Slayer.
When she goes down on him, she doesn't bother with the tricks she's learnt. Straight strong sucks, one hand wrapped around the base, fingers brushing his balls, another hand holding him back at his waist.
She watches him while she sucks. Licks to keep her chin from getting wet, and his gaze doesn't leave her face. Shoulders to the wall, hips pushing out and gameface stealing over him.
When he comes, he grabs her hand at his waist, threads his fingers through hers and squeezes. Holds tight while he comes. It's cold and she swallows, not wanting to spit in her own neat room. He hasn't let go of her hand. She lets him slip out, tries to tug her hand away but he holds onto her. Pulls her up and against him. She didn't want to get messy, but he rubs himself against her skirt, wet and she rubs back, arches when he bends his head and runs his teeth along the curve of her neck. "Slayer," he whispers.
In bed, he talks to her of Angel. It's a small bed and he holds himself up on his elbows, covering her. He's thin and strong and she looks tanned next to his paleness. She wraps her arms around him while he tells her about Angel fucking Drusilla, Angel fucking Darla. About Angelus in a carriage in Europe, orgies with men, women, demons.
"He liked blood, Angelus did," Spike murmurs as he slides in her again. She's so wet she can barely feel him, just a drowsing, drowning pleasure. "He would turn me over and use his teeth along my back, lick the wounds while he rode me, like this, Slayer." His fingers are cold and wet and she bites down on his shoulder when he enters her. "I can feel you," he says. "From both sides. Fill you up. Angel and I would take a woman like that."
At the end, he strokes her hair back, cleans her sweaty face with the bedsheet and wraps it around her. Tucks her in and sits, half-dressed in unbuttoned jeans, next to her.
"We had time, Slayer." She's sleepy, exhausted and it's early evening, the quiet time before night falls, before she has to wake up again. "We were with Angel for decades. Sometimes we'd bugger off for a while, a year here or there, but we were together for decades. Spend a whole week fucking each other and know that twenty years later, we'd be doing the same. I can see him in my sleep. Trace his body blind."
He kisses her forehead. "I'm sorry," he says. There's no sneer in his voice, no mockery. Sympathy perhaps.
"Go away," she whispers. She's barely past twenty. If she's lucky, she'll make it to twenty-five. She hates Spike.
He kisses her again and she closes her eyes. She cries quietly and Spike tries to touch her, to still her shaking, to hold her. She pushes him away and turns her face into the pillow. Her hair spreads across the pillow, tangled and wet where it covers her face. He combs it out with one hand, lights a cigarette with the other. Waits.
When he's finished smoking, she's asleep. He wipes her face with the corner of his shirt. Lights another cigarette. Waits.