All About Spike - Print Version
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By Jane Davitt

harmonyfb asked for canonical S5 S/B with no inappropriate touching, but still hot. I hope this qualifies a little and I watched the episode and made notes so everything Buffy does is canonical. It's set during Fool for Love.

She smelled of blood and he wondered if she knew that, if she really thought the antiseptic cloaked it, if she knew how it was affecting him. Slayer’s blood, spilled by violence, reeking of power, mixing with the musk of her body until he had to set his beer down before his tightening grasp shattered glass.

It hung in the air, he thought; scarlet threads binding him to her. He was tasting it with every word he spoke, making an effort to breathe, to absorb it so that she curled within him, fine filaments of dusky red mingling with his own blood, infusing it with life.

He watched her pretty, angry face, not listening to her, not really, just feeling that intangible presence within him, reaching, spreading, taking hold, making him yearn...

She turned from him to order the food he’d demanded, less from a need for it than a desire to have her feed him, obey him –

He was curious. It might be what would get him staked one day but for now, he just wanted to know why she’d brought him here, in a parody of a date that he was already spinning into fantasy, glossing the tarnished reality of being useful, bribable, to a high, burnished gleam in his mind.

The sound she made as she twisted around in her chair caught at him like fingers running through his hair; soft, involuntary, a wordless, breathless sigh of pain. He wanted to coax that sound from her, just that sound, exactly that, make her voice it, make it be his name on her lips as he hurt her just enough to feel good...then he heard the blood pop up in tiny beads as her skin tore under the bandage she wore and his smile of satisfaction hid his arousal.

Because, really, she was perfect tonight.

He brushed her hand, leaned in close, whispered in her ear...beat her every which way at pool and then took her outside...taut and relaxed at the same time, confidence suffusing him because this girl wasn’t Cecily and he wasn’t William. It would be different. She slammed her body against him, straddled him and raised her stake high - and he remembered Drusilla, her slender arms around his neck as he pushed her against the pillar in the smoky room, with the sound of the fighting giving them music to dance to as he bent to steal the taste of blood back from her full, eager lips, his fingers thrusting into cool wetness between her legs, feeling her clutch at him greedily...

Buffy sat astride him, riding him, pressing against him and he looked up at her, knowing she wouldn’t use what she held. Why should she? He was conquered and prepared to be compliant. Or not. He could play any role she wanted, chameleon-change for her, let her shape him with those little hands. Certainty gave him the ability to lie still under her so that when she moved against his hardness it was her, all her...

A minute later and he was kneeling in front of her, glorying in the depravity of it all. A vampire kneeling before a Slayer...however he swaggered and acted out the death of her sister in arms, he was still kneeling before a deity so dark she demanded the deaths of thousands to feed her, immortal as they were, crueler than any of them at heart. How could they not worship her when death was her art and they her canvas, their blood and dust her paint? He told her that and saw the truth of it flare brightly in her eyes and so he knelt. But it didn’t mean he was –

“ – beneath me.”

When she told him where he was, where he’d always be; when she scattered money on him like earth on a freshly dug grave, he felt lust simmer and boil dry, disappointment leach the sparkle from the night and leave it flat and tasteless. He watched her go and stood, swaying with the need to hurt, feeling it pluck at him with insistent, sharp-nailed fingers.

He was still hard and it became a symbol of betrayal. He was damned if he’d stay this way, with her poison in him, infecting him, making him weak. So he walked to a wall. One hand flat against it to brace himself, the other hand fumbling and shaking with anger as with impatient, vicious strokes, he spilled out his libation to his fucking, treacherous goddess and left it in the dirt, letting the climax shudder through him in time with each throbbing bruise she’d left on his flesh, each word echoing on in his ears.

It wasn’t enough. He needed her blood on his hands before he could sleep. He needed her blood. He needed her.