Rated:  NC-17


Pairing:  Buffy/Spike

Summary:  Spike reflects on his "relationship" with Buffy after the events in "Wrecked."

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, and Mutant Enemy.  No copyright infringement is intended, and no financial profit is anticipated.

Warning:  Violent sex, angst.

Note:  Contains spoilers for "Smashed" and "Wrecked."

Feedback encouraged and welcomed.

Dedication:  To Nell and Bobby.

By atara
Copyright (c) 2001

if she says come inside i'll come inside for her
if she says give it all i'll give everything to her
i am justified
i am purified
i am sanctified
inside you.
--Nine Inch Nails, "Sanctified," _Pretty Hate Machine_ (TVT Music, 1989)

After bringing a groggy and drugged Dawn home from the hospital, a cast on her arm and painkillers coursing through her system, and delivering her into the hands of her worried sister, he took his leave without a word to Buffy beyond the factual report of what had happened in the emergency room.  Then he slipped into the shadows, unable to draw himself away from the house.

Eventually a light came on in her room.  He watched as she hung strings of garlic around the windows.  Her face was drawn and determined and vulnerable all at once, and her motions were trancelike.  He sighed, grinding his cigarette out firmly under his boot.

For him that night in the collapsed house had been a ritual, his love purified in the flames of their mutual affirmation of the darkness within them and the emergence from that darkness by the very acknowledgment of it, a ritual and a cycle that would have to be repeated again and again, like Persephone's cyclic descent into and emergence from the underworld.  But now she was repudiating the darkness, pushing it away from her with her silly sodding bunches of garlic.  He suspected they were more to keep her inside rather than to keep him out.  It wasn't as though he was going to try to ravish her in her little-girl bedroom, not with the baby sister in the house, the baby sister he loved as if he were an older brother.

He fingered the wisp of cotton that were her panties, now tucked safely in his pocket.  With his other hand, he traced the fading tracks left by her nails on his chest, ruing the vampire healing powers that would make those most precious red marks disappear altogether.


When she had launched herself at him, first invading his mouth with her tongue, and then mounting him with aggressive abandon, he had been shocked, his mind careening dizzily with the surreality that comes with the fulfillment of a long-desired dream.  Her urgency had translated itself to his flesh, and he supported her weight while driving upward into liquid heat.  The cool hardness of his cock seemed enveloped in melting lava, as the heat flowed in tendrils into every finger and toe and the very roots of every hair on his head.  His legs dissolved into a shuddering weakness, and they crashed through the floor still wrapped around each other, their lips never releasing the hold they had on the other's mouth.  It was only after their first shattering orgasms, that they bothered to yank off their clothes before coming together again with ferocious hunger.

When he pressed her against the floor, his hand pinning her wrists above her head, and his cock pounding into her, she would initially melt in delicious surrender, her body fluid and yielding to his savagery.  But this surrender lasted only short moments, and she would exert her strength to flip him over, pin him down and ride him, looking down at him and desperately claiming control.  Her fingers dug bruises into his narrow hips, and she ground herself on him ferociously, as if the friction would burn away the flesh that separated their bodies from each other, fusing them into one.

Here his vampire abilities came in handy, for Buffy seemed to need orgasm after orgasm crashing through her before she could begin to relax her fierce assault on him.  When she seemed finally temporarily spent, her mouth encased his cock, while she held him down firmly, leaving him unable to thrust upward into her mouth.  She wasn't teasing him, for she sucked hard and voraciously, but she would not relinquish the least bit of control.  When he came she pressed down on his hips even harder, not allowing him any movement but the spasms of his cock.

When her straining muscles needed a break from the effort of holding him, he flipped her easily.  She fought not to be lying on her back, but Spike held her down long enough to spread her legs wide and position himself.  With the first flick of his tongue on her clit, Buffy moaned hungrily and let her legs fall open while her whole body yielded itself up to Spike's talented mouth.  Here he was gentle, tasting her inside and out, testing to see which strokes of his tongue seemed to give her the most pleasure.  He measured her responses in sighs and moans.  It was the one time that night that she pleaded with him: "Oh God, Spike, don't stop.  Don't ever stop!"  He licked and probed, finally concentrating his attentions on her swollen and aching clit, drawing out her pleasure and her rising tension.  Suddenly, he felt her strong fingers gripping his hair, and she gasped, "Spike, if I don't come really fucking SOON, I'm going to fucking stake you, I swear I will!"

"A pile of dust can't make you feel like this, luv," he ventured to remark, before acceding to her demand.  He sucked her clit between his lips, his tongue playing on it all the while, and in moments she was shuddering in orgasm, crushing his head between the contracting force of her thighs.  This time she wailed a long, drawn-out "Spi-i-i-i-i-i-i-ke!"  For a short time she allowed herself to be gathered in his arms, melting against him, while he returned her bounty to her via long kisses.

"Buffy," he murmured, "I lo--."

"Don't!" she snapped, wrenching herself out of his arms.  "I don't want to hear it.  Don't say that."  She was standing over him, and Spike leapt lightly to his feet, hooked a foot around her ankle, and swept her off her feet and back onto the floor.  "Let me go!" she growled, and delivered a ferocious slap to Spike's face.  He grabbed her wrists, wrestling her down, while plunging his tongue between her lips and grinding his knee into her crotch.  For a few moments she capitulated, sucking hard on his tongue, then she suddenly freed one hand and raked her nails down Spike's chest.  The sight of his own blood made his face vamp out, and Buffy's eyes grew wide and glazed with hunger.  She shoved him down onto his back and her mouth dove for the scratches she had made.  Spike panted as the Slayer lapped at the oozing blood.

After he let her lick for a while, he sat up, grasping her arms with a grip that left bruises.  She stared at his true face, her own expression mingling revulsion and lust.  "Don't forget that this is what you've been fucking, pet," muttered Spike.  Almost reflexively Buffy began to pull away, but Spike yanked her close, using his strength to force her down on her stomach.  Then he removed his hands from her, giving her every opportunity to get away.  She looked back over her shoulder at the ridges and fangs of his face, and then lay her head down on her arms.  Spike slid easily into her dripping cunt from behind, fucking her with hard thrusts until she yelped and came.  Driven wild by the clenching of her powerful muscles on his cock, Spike lowered himself onto her and sank his fangs into her shoulder.  Buffy arched under him with an orgasm that coincidentally seemed to bring down another large chunk of plaster from the walls of the old house.  Spike stilled the thrusts of his cock, reverently tasting the Slayer's blood, rich and sweet and scorching to his tongue.  Having committed the moment to sense-memory forever, he drove into her again, his own orgasm rushing over him.  Buffy was gasping, and Spike too took gulps of unnecessary air as he collapsed on top of her.  Then he carefully licked at the wound he had made, cleaning it of blood before he sat up and let his human features return to his face.

Exhausted and vulnerable-looking, Buffy had reached for Spike, and he lay down beside her, pulling her into his arms and covering her slight form with whatever scraps of clothing he could reach.  Her reaction in the morning had been predictable, unfortunately.  There was no way that Buffy would wake up naked next to Spike on the floor of a collapsing house and be anything but horrified.  No matter how much of her brain and her body and her soul all yearned to take him again, riding him into oblivion, Buffy forced herself to recall all the reasons why being with Spike was wrong.  And his smug self-satisfaction infuriated her, and his comment about the killing versus doing slayers slammed the door she had erected between them completely shut.  With withering brutality she had countered his innuendo, finally devastating him with the statement that he was merely convenient.  He knew it was a lie, but it hurt anyway, and he clutched tightly to the pair of panties he had claimed, wondering if they were all he would have of her from now on.


Spike leaned heavily against the tree, absorbed in his memories.  Then he shook himself slightly, ground out his most recent cigarette, and lightly climbed the tree outside Buffy's window.  Keeping to the shadows, he saw the Slayer sitting on her bed, rocking slightly as she clutched a cross and stared straight ahead of her.  She looked so stricken that Spike's first impulse was to offer her comfort, but he remembered in time both that he was the source of her distress and that he was barred from her room.  Not from the house though; he doubted that Willow would have been in any shape to cast a spell to revoke his entrance privileges or that Buffy would have felt safe sharing the reason for the spell with her friend.  He wouldn't disturb her at home, however; he knew that, between a witch in withdrawal and a baby sister traumatized by betrayal of trust and nursing a broken arm, Buffy had her hands full.  He knew, in spite of the work ahead of her, it was neither her sister nor the witch she was thinking of as she grasped the cross.  And Spike also knew that the cross would do nothing to counter the desires and darkness within her.

"Little girl," he murmured under his breath, "don't you know that resisting your life won't get you back into heaven?"   Spike climbed down the tree with equal silence, lit another cigarette and began to walk home, knowing that whatever the Slayer did, no matter how much and how long she pushed him away, no matter how much she abused him and mocked him and shut him out, he would always be there ready for her whenever she might choose to claim him.  And he knew she would--eventually.  Spike pondered the incongruity of an undead being striding toward his crypt so full of hope, while the living girl in the little-girl bedroom insisted so hard on remaining devoid of it.


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