Excerpt from the journal of Rupert Giles:
It's hard to imagine now why I was so afraid when Spike first offered me an exchange of blood. He doesn't let it happen every time we make love, but when we do it's as glorious as that first time. My head spins, less now than at first, and then there's this shock of clarity. The world seems made new, every sensation enhanced and sharp-edged and clear. And I feel the closeness of our mutual giving, while those startling blue eyes transfix my own. The first time I thought to myself that I was in love with him, I almost felt ill. Nothing seemed more dangerous than falling for Spike. But my fears were baseless, it seems. He gives me what I crave and want and need, and he takes from me what I want to give. He masters me effortlessly, and when we've fucked each other senseless, he shows a tenderness I would have never ever imagined was part of his character. Soulless? Perhaps, but it hardly seems to matter. When he touches me, when he murmurs that I belong to him, he's as human as any of us. Just . . . better.
But it was certainly hard to trust him. I couldn't stop remembering that it was only the chip that prevented him from killing humans. One night I had to talk to him about it. I asked him if he would start hunting humans again if the chip was removed. He raised his eyebrows, sighed, leaned back and folded his arms. "Look, mate, it's what I am," he insisted. "I'm a predator. Is a tiger evil when it hunts? I'm like a tiger without fangs, pet, and it's unnatural. I didn't choose to be what I am--Drusilla made that choice for me. You know as well as I do that I'm not human. You think my demon is evil, but, y'know, it does what it needs to survive. Sure, I can drink blood from a bag, but it's like feeding a tiger a can of cat food."
He continued. "Y'know the "Alien" movies, mate? That Sigourney Weaver's hot, but I was cheerin' on the aliens, y'know? They're just tryin' to survive like any predator. That's how they were made. And that's what made the last movie so bleeding cool. She was half 'n half, and she understood being the predator. An' just not caring. Like when she told that wussy guy about the alien inside 'im. She thought it was funny. He wasn't real to her, not a person. Look, pet, I'd never harm you--when I bite you the bleeding chip doesn't go off. I wouldn't harm any of your tossin' Scoobies now either. I still loathe Slutty, but she's real to me, an individual, an' she's important to you. I'd only kill 'er if she tried to dust me. But, yeah, I'd go hunting. Just like a tiger, just like a cute lit'l housecat with a mouse. I'm not Soulboy. It's bloody hard for him, and he's got a flamin' soul. But I can see it in his eyes, mate. That hunger. I can see how much he just wants to cut loose and eat the next dinner that walks by. Get 'im drunk enough or drugged or mad enough or surround him with the smell of blood, and someday that soul of his is going to mean sweet fuck-all because he's just gonna feed. I see you, Rupert, and I see my pet what belongs to me. But most humans, mate, they're just lunch on two legs. I can't help that, Rupert. It's what I am."
What could I say to that? It was all true. I knew that what he said about Angel was true. Wesley told me about the time Angel was drugged and thought he was Angelus again and the time he killed in that horrific gladiator's ring. How could I change Spike's essential nature? I work to protect my own species in the name of survival, and he preys on my species for the same reason. What more could I ask of him than to refrain from dining on me or the youngsters. And I have to offer him protection from being staked in return. I will continue to fight vampires and demons, but I can't blame Spike for being what he is. And I can really comprehend how the chip inside him is a profound cruelty. I don't think I had any idea what a humiliation it is for him every time he takes a bag of blood from my fridge.
But of course that conversation disturbed me. I started drinking, and Spike joined me, and we got drunk together. He was so tender that evening too. He knew how difficult it was for me to accept his predatory nature, and he was grateful I was willing to listen and try to understand. I was also disturbed by his possessiveness, in a way I hadn't been previously. I worried if Spike had to dominate human lovers because he considered humans inferior, by definition. And maybe that's so, but I've since learned that the only being he allows to master him is Angel--and he fights him too and tests him, so that Angel must force his submission. But otherwise he dominates his lovers, takes possession of them, bends them to his will. Yet he sometimes indicates that he's acquired a respect for me as well, oddly enough. And he certainly takes the responsibility of a master seriously.
He pushes me hard with pain and humiliation. One night he made me crawl to him and then beg for a thrashing with his belt. And he gave me the thrashing too. I knew he was holding back--if he'd used his full strength on me, even after the infusions of his blood, he'd have probably killed me or caused permanent damage. He was careful, and even so it hurt. I was crying--from pain, from shame, probably both. And when he was done, he ordered me to thank him on my knees and pay tribute to him by sucking his cock. It was hard--I had cried so much I could hardly breathe, but he fucked my mouth savagely, using me and showing me I was just something for him to use. But afterward . . . afterward he held me and rocked me and soothed me and praised me all night and never once mocked my tears.
I didn't really grow to trust him, though, until he risked himself to save me. There was a large, the best word is migration, I guess, of a group of Urizenian demons into Sunnydale. Cordelia had had a vision of them, and Angel and Wesley came down to help us. It was a massive battle. Even Xander and Willow fought with any weapon they could use. I downed several with my crossbow, as did Wesley with his. Riley fought well and killed many. But Buffy and Angel and Spike were the center of activity, and I've never seen any of them in what seemed to be so many places at once. They were magnificent. And it was particularly dangerous for Angel and Spike because these demons had stakes. They've apparently battled with vampires before over territory.
But then at one point I found myself surrounded at close range. I swung my crossbow, and I'm glad to say I knocked one unconscious. But before they grabbed me, Spike was there, yanking one demon away from behind and kicking and punching the others. They turned to him, and overpowered him--he was staked in several places, and it was only by constant dodging that he protected his heart. Angel and Riley broke up the circle of demons around Spike, and he leapt up swinging, his eyes glowing yellow and his true face full of fury. It was only when we finally killed them all that he acknowledged his wounds--he was bleeding from several places at once and feverish. We all had scratches and bruises and were in danger of infection, but Spike had the most serious injuries.
I suggested we take him to my place, and Buffy muttered under her breath, "Why bother? It's just Spike." If I had begun to say half of what I wanted to say, I would have given myself away and alienated her forever. Buffy is so singleminded, so self-righteous sometimes. But Willow and Angel both pointed out (as if it needed to be pointed out) that Spike had been fighting on our side and had saved me. Angel carried him, and we all trouped back to my place. We had put Tara in charge of medical supplies, and she nursed the others. Angel carried Spike up to the loft and helped me clean and bind his wounds. I was terribly worried, and for a short while Spike regained consciousness and asked how I was. When he saw that we were both all right, he said something about us fussing over him "like a couple of nancyboy poofters" and passed out again. Angel looked at him, then at me, his perpetual frown deepening a little. In a rather dry tone he said, "Rupert, if you ever need to talk, please feel free." Spike can be difficult, and Angel was commiserating. And he did turn out to be a very demanding patient. Helplessness does not become him. When I tried to thank him for risking his own life to save me, he brushed it off with an impatient dismissal that of course he was going to take care of what belonged to him. And when he recovered, he pulled me close one day and said, "Thanks for puttin' up wi' me, pet. I know I'm a pain in the arse when I'm sick, and you've been absobloodylutely the best."
But it staggers me still sometimes. On my knees, his cock down my throat, and I look up at that startlingly luminescent face of his--just beautiful--and I think, This is Spike you're sucking off. And then there's the fear and arousal and desire and wonder that well up in me all at once. His mastery fills a deep-seated craving in me as does his possessiveness. It makes me feel curiously safe, being under his protection. And I've never felt so free with a lover before. He takes me and commands me and pushes me and uses me, and lust just crashes through me like a tidal wave. I can't spread my legs wide enough to admit his ramming cock, I can't get enough of his blood. He takes me so hard and so rough that I feel satisfied and filled and whole in a way it feels like I've always wanted, but never acknowledged. He claims me utterly thoroughly. "You are mine, Rupert," he announces. Then his face set and hard, he backhands me across the face, and I feel myself falling from the blow. But he catches me and brings me to his mouth, his vampire features emerge, and I feel his fangs just piercing my lower lip. I willingly offer him my blood while he kisses me, and I'm lost, whirling into a frenzy of lust and fever and semen and blood, Spike's strong hands always there to keep me anchored and secure.
How odd that I'd associate Spike with the word "secure," but it feels right. Ah God, when his cock is ravaging me, it feels absolutely right.
Spike wandered into Giles' place, tossed his duster over a chair and flung himself on the couch. He was carrying a small bag from the pharmacy. "What?" asked Giles, "you actually paid for those?"
"Huh," muttered Spike, "like I'd waste me talent nicking puny shit like this." He proceeded to dump the contents out onto the coffee table: a bottle of nail polish remover, a bag of cotton balls, a nail clipper, an emory board, a bottle of black nail polish, a package of cigarettes and a disposable lighter in a lurid chartreuse color that offended Giles' aesthetic sensibilities. Spike quickly removed his old nail polish and went on to give himself an efficient manicure, clipping his nails short, while Giles watched, a half-smile on his face. After Spike had painted on one layer of polish he turned to Giles and said, "Be a pet and light me a smoke, Watcher."
Giles lit a cigarette and took a long drag before placing it between Spike's lips.
"You don't smoke," remarked the vampire.
"Only occasionally," responded Giles.
"Well, y'should be careful. Shit'll kill you," muttered Spike as he inhaled deeply. Then he sat up suddenly. "'ey! You promised me you'd play something for me one day. This would be the perfect time--entertain me while I finish me nails."
"I promised that?" queried a flustered Giles.
"Well, luv, you were pretty pissed, and I was fucking you and pumping your cock, and then I stopped and wouldn't let you get off until you promised." Spike grinned.
"Seems a bit dodgy to take advantage of a man when he's under the influence and horny too."
"Rupert, luv, I take every advantage I can get."
"Yes, good point."
Spike picked up the bottle of nail polish and started on the second coat. "Why the bleedin' hell am I discussing this with you, mate? Get your soddin' guitar and play something for me. That's an order."
Giles hesitated for a second, and Spike's vampire features emerged for a moment. Giles had to stifle a laugh at the incongruity of the yellow eyes and the fangs, with the bottle of nail polish, and some of his nervousness dissipated. He got the guitar and tuned it abstractedly while he thought about what to sing. Then a slight smile crept across his face. "This is a tune I've always been fond of," he said before strumming the opening chords.
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feel my heart start to trembling
Whenever you're around . . .
Giles' voice was both mellow and strong as he poured his own sweetness and fervor into the lyrics, and his face shone with an embarrassed delight. Spike smiled to himself--Giles looked so innocent somehow as he strummed and sang.
. . . I just lose control
Down to my very soul
I get hot and cold all over
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down, tumbling down . . .
Spike clapped and whistled. "You really are good, Rupert, y'know?" He got up, gently took the guitar and moved it and then pulled Giles up into his arms. "Do you really feel the earth move, luv?" he demanded while sliding his hands up under Giles' sweater.
"Oh-ohhhh yes." Spike kissed Giles firmly but tenderly, their tongues twining around each other slowly and sensuously.
"But it has been a while since you've listened to new music, hasn't it, pet?"
"Well, yes," admitted Giles, as Spike squatted down to examine his LP collection.
The vampire muttered to himself as he flipped through the album covers, "Um-hmm . . . oh yeah--remember that one . . . Crikey . . . y'know I was at the concert at Leeds--I saw the Who I-don't-know how many times . . . uh-huh . . . Jesus, Rupert, you ought to be ashamed of yourself . . . ." Spike's accent slipped into an exaggerated twang, "'Well, I'm running down the road / Tryin' to loosen my load / I got seven women on / My mind' . . . hey--cool! . . . uh-huh . . . mmmmmm . . . oh, man, I haven't listened to 'Ziggy Stardust' in years--your collection's a fuckin' time machine, mate . . . yes, yes, yes . . . been there, done that . . . yes . . . oh yeah--I haven't heard this in fucking years!"
Spike pulled out an album and switched on the stereo. He blew dust off the needle of Giles' turntable and started the record. While a woman's voice filled the room, Spike began to dance, his hips swaying and rotating with an inhuman fluidity and sinuousness. He then went into an exaggerated grind, snapping his fingers and gazing at Giles coyly under his eyelashes with a half smile.
. . . No muscle bound man,
Could take my hand,
From my guy.
No handsome face,
Could ever take the place,
Of my guy,
He may not be a movie star,
But when it comes to being happy,
There's not a man today,
Who can take me away,
From my guy.. . .
Giles grinned, watching the vampire's rhythmic motions. When the song ended, Giles applauded, then shook his head and said amiably, "And you call me a poof?"
Spike flopped down on the sofa next to Giles and pulled him close to his face. His true face emerged, and he growled, "Have some respect, pet," but he was grinning, and as his fangs melted away, he pulled Giles into a long, hard kiss, roughly invading the human's mouth. When the kiss ended, and Giles was gasping, Spike noted, "Y'know what's one problem with being a vampire, pet?"
"If you tell a human lover you just want to devour them, they tend to take it literally."
"I confess I would have some apprehension at hearing those words, yes," admitted Giles.
"Too bad. You're mine. Just accept that vampires use metaphors too."
Spike stood up, pulled Giles up, and slung him over his shoulder, carrying him unceremoniously upstairs. Giles, whose face was level with Spike's ass, had a sudden impulse and bit down.
"Ow! You are going to pay for that, Watcher," snapped Spike as he dumped Giles down on the bed. "I'm going to teach you who does what to who around here."
"Whom. Who does what to whom," corrected Giles.
Spike raised an eyebrow in exasperation, rolled Giles over, and gave him a tremendous smack on his ass. "Correct my grammar one more time, pet, and I'll leave you hospitalized for a week. Now, get those soddin' clothes off."
Giles hastened to obey, but Spike remained dressed, in his jeans and tshirt. When Giles was naked, Spike hauled him off the bed and onto the floor. He pressed his boot to Giles' cheek, and Giles gasped with lust. "Mine," Spike insisted. "Mine to use."
"Yes, Spike," murmured Giles, feeling his erection pressed between his stomach and the floor. Spike removed his boot and ordered Giles to stand up and bend over, hands pressed flat to the bed.
"Don't get too worked up, mate. That cock o' yours isn't going to be seein' any satisfaction any time soon. Now, before we do anything else, there's the matter of your punishment for biting me in the arse. Your arse is going to be a lot sorer soon."
Spike slowly removed his belt, and Giles' senses were so attuned, he was sure he heard the faint hiss of leather sliding across denim. Then Spike snapped the belt loudly, and Giles jumped. Spike laughed. "Gets 'em every time. Now. You are so in trouble." Spike swung the doubled up belt hard against Giles' ass. The Watcher moaned, and Spike licked his lips at the wide red stripe that formed. Again the belt exploded against the stretched skin of Giles' buttocks. Giles gasped sharply with each blow, but tried to refrain from making any more noise. But eventually it was too much, the flesh was too raw, and he groaned loudly every time the smooth leather made contact with his skin. Spike was thorough, reddening every inch of the ass in front of him, including the sensitive crease between buttocks and thighs. Giles yelped and slammed his fist into the mattress.
"What do you want, luv?" asked Spike with mock-concern. "Does it hurt little Rupert too much?"
"NO! It's not that, damn it!"
"Then what is it?" demanded Spike, his voice hard, "tell me exactly what you want."
Giles didn't hesitate, having gotten over his embarrassment about such matters. "Fuck me, please, Spike. Oh, god, please. Please take me hard. God, I want to feel you inside me. I'm burning, Spike, please--burning and aching."
"Burning where, pet?"
"Inside . . . my arsehole. It's aching for you."
"Well, then, I guess we'll have to do something about that. Can't leave Rupert Giles with an achin' arsehole, can we? On the bed. Knees and elbows." Giles obeyed, while Spike ran downstairs to retrieve something from his coat. "No peeking," he teased, and Giles heard the small pop of a plastic lid being removed, and the slight whine of a seal being broken and something metallic sounding being peeled from the can.
In a moment he felt something thick and slippery being pushed into his ass with two ungentle fingers. "What is that?" he asked.
"Crisco, mate. Tonight I'll be needin' the high-test lube, and Crisco really is the timeless fucking classic for this sort of thing."
Giles swallowed hard. He thought he knew what was coming. However much Spike fucked him with his cock, he almost always spent some time exploring and stretching Giles with his fingers. He'd gotten all of them in there before, but had stopped at the knuckles the fingers pressed into a wedge. Giles tried to keep his breathing even as Spike pushed what seemed like gobs of slippery stuff into his ass.
"I'm going to take what's mine, pet," announced Spike. "I want all of you, luv. I want your pleasure, your pain, your strength, your complete surrender. Open up for Spike now." He easily slid three fingers inside Giles' ass and added a fourth, in and out, probing deeply. Now the fingers slipped in effortlessly, bearing another scoop of Crisco, and Giles sighed in pleasure. As he exhaled, he felt a thumb added on the next stroke, and Spike was fucking him with all five fingers, his knuckles stopping just before the ring of muscle.
Spike coated the rest of his hand with Crisco, and then slid inside Giles up to the knuckles again. Giles was eager, panting, yielding, craving to let the vampire inside him. "Well?" asked Spike.
"Yes, please, Spike. Please fuck me. Please--I want your fist inside me. I want it to hurt. I need to feel you there."
"You beg so nicely, Rupert," remarked Spike. "Well then, buckle your seatbelt, luv. A bumpy ride coming up!" Giles breathed and focused on relaxing, and Spike, rotating his hand back and forth slightly, worked it past the resistant opening.
As the knuckles pushed past his entrance, Giles' eyes shot open. He was burning, raw, and it hurt, every nerve in the tender passage on fire. Giles bit into the bunched up sheet he'd been holding, and he gasped and grunted between his teeth: "Je-SUS! Bloody fucking bleeding HELL! Oh, GOD in Heaven--fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck . . . . "
"You want me to stop?" asked Spike casually.
"NO! GoddamnfuckNO!" At this last exclamation, Spike made one more push, and his hand curled into a fist inside Giles' ass.
"That nancyboy school of yours didn't prepare you for this, did it, mate?"
"Spike! You blithering tosser! This is important!" Giles' voice choked on the last word, and he realized he was crying--tears from the pain, tears of triumph, tears of vulnerability and exposure. He needed Spike to be serious, for once.
And much to his surprise, Spike's free hand was stroking his flank, and the vampire was murmuring, "Yes, luv, yes it is. You're a good boy to take me in like that--think of it Rupert: I've got my fist up your arse, and I'm going to fuck you into the ground. Because you're mine."
"Yesssssssssss!" hissed Giles, as Spike's fist began to move, first slowly back and forth, then faster. Every stroke stretched the raw ring of muscle and rubbed the tender flesh ever rawer. Giles' breath caught in his throat, and only when he heard Spike say, "Breathe, pet," did he remember to breathe again. And then the pain was flooding every part of his body with heat and light and color and pure, radiant bliss. Every muscle in his legs turned to jelly, and he wondered if it was only Spike's fist that was holding his ass up. He felt as though a channel up through his center was splitting open, exposing every secret, every desire, every longing, every hurt, every fear, every anger, every need to Spike's penetrating scrutiny. He had never felt so vulnerable; he had never felt so complete. And Spike's murmured endearments flowed like honey into all the newly-opened crevices of his being, filling him with a conviction of safety and acceptance. A hand wrapped around his cock, and the fist drove him into that hand from behind. Giles spiraled down into a place where his need surged and raged and poured out of him in gasping, aching spasms, his semen spattering his belly and flowing over Spike's hand. And in gratitude and release, Giles wept.
When Spike slowly withdrew his fist, Giles curled into a fetal ball, feeling deflated, empty, abandoned. He heard the sounds of washing in the bathroom, and the sounds of clothing being removed, and then he felt the vampire curl around him, hold him, surround him with cool flesh. When he decided his muscles had been restored from being liquified into their usual condition, he slid onto the floor on his knees and softly asked for the privilege of expressing his gratitude. Spike made a sweeping gesture of assent, and Giles' mouth descended on the vampire's cool, hard cock. As he sucked and licked and took it deeply inside him, he felt Spike's fingers threading through his hair in an affectionate caress.
When Spike walked in the door a few days later, after nights of showing Giles repeatedly all the ways he belonged to him, the gang was there, and Giles was in full Watcher mode. Buffy and Riley were leaning forward, serious expressions on their faces, as they discussed the latest threat to frequent the Hellmouth. Xander was pacing about making sarcastic comments, while Anya slumped on the sofa looking exasperated. Willow and Tara were sitting close, holding hands, looking much more relaxed now that Willow's friends were comfortable with their relationship.
"Spike," murmured Giles in a distracted fashion, while the vampire tossed his duster over the back of a chair and headed for the fridge.
"Was he invited?" muttered Buffy irritably.
"Those pesky vampires," cracked Xander. "Invite 'em in once, you can't get rid of 'em."
"Is it getting tedious in here?" drawled Spike languidly, while heating his bag of blood.
"Yeah," retorted Xander, "ever since you walked in."
"Can we return to the subject at hand?" asked Giles, a carefully modulated edge of irritation in his voice.
"Certainly," said Spike cheerily, sipping from his favorite mug. "What evil nasties are threatening the good citizens of Sunnyhell tonight? Any demon butt I can kick?"
Spike had moved behind Giles, about to casually lay a possessive hand on the back of his neck. Giles flinched away from the touch and got up quickly. Buffy glanced at him narrowly, wondering what she'd just missed, and Spike jammed his hand in his jeans pocket. Willow happened to glance at him, and she was the only one who noticed the look of hurt bewilderment that flashed across his face.
Spike gulped down the rest of the blood, then strode to retrieve his duster. "Changed my mind. I hate to drink and run, but you'll have to manage without my help tonight." He was out the door before Xander managed to formulate a sarcastic remark about the nature of Spike's "help."
Long after the gang had left, Giles was pacing nervously around his living room, wondering when Spike would be back.
He had his back turned to the front door when he heard a voice behind him saying quietly, "Ashamed of me, are you, pet?"
"It's n-not that!" snapped Giles. "They wouldn't understand!" Then, more softly, "I'm not sure I understand."
"I understand that you're happy to declare yourself mine when you're taking it up the arse, but you're afraid of the opinion of a group of children. Wouldn't they just love to know what their former librarian does in his free time? Wouldn't the Slayer be thrilled to learn that her former Watcher sucks vampire cock and drinks vampire blood?"
"God, no, Spike, please don't. I'll do anything you want."
"You do anything I want anyway, you fuckwit!" retorted Spike disgustedly. "When I take someone, I expect him to be worth my while, not someone who's pissin' himself because he's terrified about what a bunch of teenagers think about who 'e's shaggin'. You can see the sun rise every bleedin' day, Rupert, but you're the one cowering in corners."
Giles turned away and muttered to himself, "What in bleeding hell have I been doing? God help me."
"You've been fucking William the Bloody, mate, former cutthroat and current soulless vamp. Maybe you convinced yourself that it was OK because Uncle Spike has lost his bite. If I was really myself, you'd be shittin' yourself before you came near me, wussyboy." Spike turned and strode toward the door, his duster flaring out behind him.
"Spike, wait!" called out Giles, knowing with complete certainty that he didn't want Spike to go. "Give me a chance--we can work thi . . . s out," Giles trailed off as he was interrupted by the slamming of the door.
Excerpts from the journal of Rupert Giles:
He's gone. Days have passed since he walked out, and as soon as the sun goes down, I'm waiting, pacing, drinking. I stare at the front door, willing it to open, willing him to walk in, toss his duster over the back of a chair, help himself to a meal of blood, help himself to me.
Is he hurting? Angry? Tired of me? God, it was a second, just an automatic reaction, that flinch. But it was all he needed to see to see my cowardice. But what if I admitted to my relationship with him? Buffy would recoil, Xander would be disgusted, but Willow might understand. She's the only one who extended any compassion or understanding to Spike. But what does it matter? Would it damage them to know I'm a human being, I have desires? If he'd only give me a chance, I'd make it up to him. If only he'd walk in the door . . .
God, I miss him. What does it say of me that I miss Spike? What was I thinking? How did I bring myself to trust him? Why? Spike???!!!
It's simple. I wanted to trust him. I thought I got over my "thing" for the dangerous type with Ethan. I thought I had, perhaps, grown up. I was wrong. Spike is a walking epitome of the dangerous type--the duster, the cigarettes, the wit, the attitude, the confidence, the mockery that underlies his dominance. The way he radiates his omnivorous sexuality in waves. Did I think that the chip made him somehow safe? That he couldn't inflict emotional harm?
But it wasn't just the chip. It was those moments of tenderness, however brief. Where did they come from? He had me believing that somehow he cared, that he wasn't simply using me. I don't even know that it mattered at the beginning. It was exciting to think of Spike using me. Choosing me to use. God, Rupert, how lame as the kids would say.
And now I obsess. Did he care? Was I just a toy to be used? Would I mind being a toy as long as he was here? I see myself groveling, pleading, doing anything to get him back, but I see him recoil in disgust at the same time. He wanted my strength, not my weakness, not empty offers to give him what I've already given him before. I think he respected my submission, my willingness to take the risk of giving myself to him, offering him my blood, opening my body to his cock and his fist.
But that strength only went so far. Did he know how much I dreaded for the kids to find out? Did he know I rehearsed stammering explanations, then dismissed them, unable to bear the thought of their disappointment, their inability to understand?
I don't think I understand.
Would he laugh to know how much of this journal he occupies? To know that I'm thinking, dreaming, breathing, mourning, wanting him? Why was I so easy to discard when all I can think of is him? Does he think about me now? Or has he dismissed me from his head as easily as he discarded me?
I think about his cheekbones, the arch of his eyebrows, his lips. Those eyes probing me. That rich voice that caressed and stung me all at once, seeping inside me through seemingly every nerve. His lean muscular form, compact, not a bit of superfluity or waste. Superbly constructed to do damage. And, oh God, to rouse me to life. I think about his hands, so much force concentrated in such a small place. Striking me, coaxing my skin to tingle, penetrating me, controlling me in more ways than I could imagine. Opening me, exposing me. And his cock, long, cool, hard, filling me, taking me, mastering me. His fangs sinking into my flesh. And, God, the taste of the blood he offered me--how it flowed over my tongue, down my throat, and directly into my cock.
I think about his hand on the back of my neck. Sometimes he just rested it there, reminding me of his power. And I would inwardly beg that he would push my head down to his cock, use me, use my mouth, transfix me with the head of his cock in my throat. My mouth watering, and his mocking smile, knowing what I wanted, what I craved. "Later, pet," he would tease, "and only if you're a good boy and mind your Uncle Spike."
Oh, I miss his voice. I want to scream. I want to cry and rage and throw things. Does he know I cry in the night, trying to muffle it with a pillow, humiliated even by myself? Does he know I wake up, my voice hoarse and raw from calling to him with my teeth clenched on the pillow so the sound boils in my throat but does not escape?
Why won't he come back?
The kids know there's something wrong. Willow asks me, her voice full of concern and compassion. Buffy lectures me on my drinking--she poured a bottle of wine into the sink, and I hid the rest after she left. Xander found a pack of cigarettes--they know I don't smoke. But sometimes I have one, and it brings at least a shadow of him back to me. Have they noticed it's the same brand he smokes?
I push their concerns away, irritable, touchy. I fear if I don't dismiss them, I'll break down in front of them. I can't. I just can't. How humiliating. A grown man sobbing out his relationship troubles to a group of teenagers, sounding as obsessive and lovestruck and needy as they can be.
They wonder about Spike's disappearance. I try to turn them away from the subject, but they're understandably nervous not knowing where he is or what he's up to. He's a vampire, after all. Riley is pretty certain that there's a way to neutralize Spike's chip. That thought frightens all of us, but they can't help being curious.
And every vampire Buffy stakes is Spike, and first I celebrate, and then I mourn.
I want to dust him myself. I want to torture him with sunlight. I want him to bleeding hurt!!!
God no. I want to know if he's safe. I actually worry about his defenselessness. But I shudder to think of him able to kill again. This speculation is foolish; all I really want is to have him back. Missing him tears at my stomach like fangs. It hurts. It feels like a hand is reaching into my chest and twisting my muscles and veins into knots, squeezing my lungs so I find it hard to breathe. It hurts.
I miss his nervous energy, the way he's always in motion. I miss that intense focus where his eyes pin me, and nothing else exists in the universe. I miss the taste of beer and tobacco and the blood tang of his kisses. I miss opening my eyes and seeing the demon in his face, yellow eyes glowing, assessing me as a predator would. I miss the quirk of his smile when he would pinch me to bruising, and I would moan with desire. I miss the way he filled me, filled my mouth, filled my ass, sent his blood coursing into every empty space inside, filled me past wanting, filled me to the point of peace, to a satisfaction I'll never feel again because no being could find and fill those spaces the way he did.
He'll never want me now.
Willow hacked into some of the other disks Spike brought from the Initiative. She found out that his chip can't be removed, but it can be deactivated--some sort of laser tuned to a particular frequency that affects the chip but not the surrounding tissue.
Spike stole the information that same night after I had gone to sleep. It gave me chills to think he'd been watching us so closely, yet never saw fit to speak to me or make his presence known. Was he reading these journals? Did he ever pause to watch me in my sleep? Did he feel any desire to speak to me, touch me, take me, shag me senseless? Or was it only information he wanted? Have I ceased to matter to him at all?
He'll find someone to do the procedure for him--there's so much on that disk an unscrupulous scientist could want.
Spike in his full predatory glory? God. Could he master me any more thoroughly?
I've done some inquiries. It was as I suspected; the chip is deactivated, and Spike is free to kill whatever he wishes. I can see him pumping his fist and yelling, "Yeah!"
I've tracked him to San Francisco. He should have easy pickings there with those looks of his.
I know what I should do. I should tell Buffy about the chip, and we should go to San Francisco to Slay him. With his power, who knows how many lives he's taking? But . . . I can't tell her. I can't perform this mission. I can't imagine a world without him in it. Now I finally understand what Buffy went through when Angel lost his soul. Oh God, and she's just a child . . . And she did what she knew was right . . . and I can't.
How many lives will be on my hands?
Every night the tension knots and builds in my stomach--sometimes I have to curl up like a child to contain it, the pain is so great. He's spoiled me for anyone else. I crave him, all of him, William the Bloody. The vampire. The predator. The killer. This wine burns my throat, but it doesn't drown my craving. Nothing can take the place of his blood, his cock, his fist, his mastery.
I know I should send Buffy after him. He's a killer.
He hurt me. He hurt me. It hurts. I hate him for this pain. Sometimes I even wish him dead. Dusted.
But I must love him. I love Spike. I never told him, but he must have known.
No, I can't send Buffy after him.
if he just turned up one day, walked through the door,
helped himself to a meal of blood, and draped himself on the settee
it's his throne? What if? What have I become? I should send
after him, but I know I would do anything, anything, anything at all to
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