Summary: Spike and Buffy get dizzy.
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: Violence, rough sex, explicit language, middling angst.
Notes: Part 1 of this story takes place during the events of the
episode "School Hard" (Season 2); Part 2 takes place during the events
of "Smashed" and "Wrecked" (Season 6), so expect spoilers. There
are also spoilers for "Fool for Love" (Season 5).
that is enclosed within single quotes inside double quotes ("'like
this'") is taken directly from the episodes.
many thanks and much gratitude and appreciation to avidrosette for her
constructive and insightful beta-reading! Her comments and
suggestions were right-on; any flaws in execution are, of course, my
Dedication: This story is dedicated to Dragonsphoenix (sorry, it
isn't Buffy/Angel, sweetie, but that just isn't my thang), who is
brave, beautiful, kind beyond the call of duty, and a fellow U2 fan.
at a place called Vertigo
everything I wish I didn't know
you give me something I can feel, feel
"Vertigo," How to Dismantle an
Atomic Bomb (Interscope Records, 2004)
the practiced senses of a predator, he surveyed the swaying, writhing
bodies, sweat glistening under the shifting colors of the lights.
The colors were brighter for him than they would have been for most of
the beings in the room, but that wasn't what interested him. He
closed his eyes, better to absorb the only thing that mattered to
him--the scent of blood. Blood with the faintest tang of extra
flavor from poncy weak American beer. Blood oversweet from the
endless sodas the younger ones drank while they waited to be old enough
to drink the lousy beer. Menstrual blood captured in
cotton. And sweat everywhere. Even the kids sitting at
tables were sweating, laughing and talking on dates, pretending not to
be nervous, while their odors gave them away. None of this
interested him at the moment. It was a distraction.
he got a waft of what he was searching for. A waft enough to give
him a head rush from the memories. Slayer blood. His eyes
followed his nose, and he saw a slight girl dancing with two friends, a
boy and another girl; the girl whom he'd been seeking had hardly any
skin on her bones, bare arms lifted above her head in a
little-girl-lilac, incongruously revealing spaghetti strap top.
The other girl had a strange aura about her, colors coruscating too
quickly for his eyes to follow, but the flow was alternately warm and
deadly. Fuck, he
thought. Witch. Have to
keep an eye on her. And what kind of sodding slayer goes dancing?
The slayer's blonde hair bounced and swayed, and she smiled both at her
friends and at the feeling of strength and flexibility that rippled
body as she danced. He remembered the others. You bloody
well didn't see them dancing.
The Chinese girl was all control and training, endless training in
martial arts, for what good it did her. When he had found her,
she was already tired, missing her mother, heartsick from
isolation. She was easy. The next one was full of fury, but
also tired. Distracted and unable to keep all her focus on
slaying. She had been tougher than the first, but ultimately easy
too. And she had so considerately left him her black leather
duster, the one he wore now as he contemplated his third slayer.
complete gits lived on this Hellmouth. Oblivious to danger, or
ignoring it. And the slayer was dancing.
She'd be easy, he thought to himself. Young and stupid.
He'd been hoping for more of a challenge. Still, a slayer was a
slayer, and killing her would make him the undisputed Master Vampire of
the Hellmouth. Did it really matter that she looked as harmless
as a kitten, he thought dismissively. Damn shaggable
though. He licked his lips and noted reflexively the
easily-inspired throb inside his jeans, as he mentally noted that he
really wanted to fuck this
slayer before he drained her blood or snapped her neck. He
sadistically imagined the sight of her violated and broken body, as he
had before assailing so many other particularly toothsome
victims. But something, a predator's instinct maybe, made him
take a harder look, and her aura, blurry until this moment, came into
focus before his eyes, glowing silver with the slenderest ribbon of
black at the center. This slayer was no kitten--more like a
panther cub, playful and unaware of the darkness budding inside her,
waiting to bloom, a darkness that would disturb but never shatter that
brilliant silver light. Then his eyes popped open with
shock. He was feeling something else--something entirely unlike
the familiar combination of bloodthirstiness and lust--a sharp jolt, a
traitorous feeling beneath his breast that somehow forced a
long-repressed word into his mind: "effulgent."
realized that he was leaning against a wall; a dizziness had been
creeping around his brain, and for a moment he closed his eyes,
grateful for the wall's support. When he looked at the slayer
again, the feeling hit him much harder--like the floor falling out from
under him, like he was falling and spinning all at once and where he
landed would be hard . . . and sharp . . . and heartshatteringmadnessinducingconfusinghumiliatingglorious--with
more pain than he could ever conceive and more ecstasy than he could
ever imagine. Get your fucking
head together, you wanker! he thought, shaking his head, and the
vertigo dissipated as he reminded himself of his plans and ambitions
here in Sunnydale, plans which required that he take this slayer out.
business now, he walked over to the table where she had been sitting,
glanced with disinterest at her schoolbooks, circled the dancing trio
from a safe distance, and ordered the waiting minion to go get himself
something to eat. After a sufficient time had passed he called
loudly for a phone, announcing that there was a big guy outside trying
to bite someone. Predictably the slayer took off. He
followed slowly, forcing himself to remain cool. To remember he
was cool. The
coolest. The baddest. He watched her stake his minion, who
hadn't known he was on a suicide mission, and clapped his hands slowly,
sarcastically, each clap resounding in the alley behind the club.
He let her know he would kill her, his voice menacing, confident, but
another voice buzzed inside his head like a
mosquito, a taunting voice, saying, You'll
never kill her, bloody
William. Never. Nevernevernevernevernevernevernevernever .
. . He forced himself to walk away as if he owned
the world, but the dizziness had overtaken him again, and when he was
safely away in a nearby alley, he threw up.
was fighting him, furiously, somehow having crashed through the walls
of an abandoned house. Fighting! It felt so
familiar--hadn't they been fighting like this for years? But of
course not--he shouldn't have been able to hit her. Not. At.
All. But here his fist connected with her ribs, and there he
flipped her across the room. He had to be, God forbid, right; she
had to have come back wrong.
Pummeling Spike, she felt a surge of rage at Willow--who should have
fucking known how difficult resurrection spells are. Particularly
when you don't know if the person has any desire to be
resurrected. Again, she found his fist smashing her cheek or
sinking into her gut. She had taunted him, "'Poor Spikey.
Can't be a human. Can't be a vampire. Where do you belong?'" But now she
might be as much of a freak
as he was. She rushed
him, the familiarity of fighting him and the wrongness of him being able to
fight her chasing each other around
her head. She was dizzy, bewildered, . . . and more. Angry
and strong and alive and . . . god, like she was burning up. Stop thinking! she ordered herself
as she shoved Spike against a wall. She was ready to beat him
black and blue, break bones, leave him a crawling wreck who would never
bother her again . . . and she grabbed his head and began kissing him
as fiercely as she had fought him. Then she pushed him again,
shoving him across the room and up against a wooden
pillar, and she jumped up lightly, wrapped her legs around his waist
and reached down to unzip his pants, while, obviously not objecting,
Spike yanked down her panties and lifted her onto him.
god yes! She'd been
burning inside--it was excruciating--and the coolness of his cock
impaling her felt like . . . nothing she could describe.
Perfect. His tongue was down her throat, and her hands were all
over him, feeling cool flesh under his shirt as she slid her hands
under it; she wanted to lick him everywhere and quench this burning
thirst. She wanted him to fuck her harder. As if reading
her mind, he turned her around, pressed her against the pillar, and she
reached up and grabbed at the top of it, all her weight on Spike.
He slammed her into the wood with every thrust, and all that mattered
was his pounding cock, because she wanted to COME. And come
again. And again. God, how could she ever be
satisfied? Good thing he was a vamp, she thought for a wry moment.
Wait. Wanted? When had she last wanted? Anything. At
all. Before she died, of course. And maybe she wasn't
really alive--and that's why he could hit her. She felt the
bruises blooming on her skin from their fight and sought his own with
her fingers, pressing on them while she bit his lower lip and rode him.
then her head was buzzing with dizziness, he was letting her fall--god,
where? How long? How far? How deep? Her head
spun with vertigo--she didn't know up or down, just that she would fall
He hadn't let go. His arms were tight around her, and they had
fallen together. There was a floor, and she decided it didn't
matter where they had fallen. He was under her, and she was still
riding him, getting closer, her head thrown back as his hands dug
bruises into her breasts, and her nails spasmodically scratched bloody
lines in his chest as she got closer. THERE! Buffy wailed
then fell forward onto Spike's chest, pushing him down with her
hands. He complied and stayed still, only his hips still rocking
under her until she felt him come, shivering a little at the coldness
of his semen inside her.
rested. Briefly. He took her from behind, giving her a
sharp smack on the ass when he was done. She shoved him off of
her, and they wrestled, biting, scratching, pinching, even tickling,
using every dirty trick to get the upper hand and the other one on the
bottom. She hit him in the mouth, pushed him to the floor and bit
into the bruise, smiling to herself as he howled and she tasted his blood.
He knelt on top of her with her hands trapped behind her back and
tormented her nipples with both hands, twisting and pinching. She
freed a hand and slapped him, and he grabbed the hand and sucked each
finger after the other, slowly, languorously, until her patience could
stand it no longer, and she pushed him off so he was sitting on the
floor, and she lowered herself onto him, their
legs around each other, and they fucked each other slowly and kissed,
and she had a flash of an unfamiliar feeling, until she remembered the
word for it was "safe."
rest. Also brief. "Suck me," he ordered, and she did,
feeling like a whore and getting turned on by the feeling. She
swallowed, thirstily, wondering why she had always found it
distasteful. And when she was satisfied, she demanded, "Lick me,"
in as imperious a tone. And, oh god, did he. He took his
time. He explored. He teased her clit with the very tip of
his tongue until she
was pounding on the floor with her fists, then plunged it inside her
cunt, fucking her slowly, circling the entrance, darting out to play
with her lips, and she pounded the floor more furiously.
"Spike!" she yelled. "Make me come or I'll fucking stake
lifted his head, quirked an eyebrow, and said, "I always aim to satisfy
a lady." Then he sucked at her clit, tonguing it hard, and her
back arched higher and higher, and she howled, a sound so primal that
if she'd actually been conscious of it, she would have terrified
herself. But all she was aware of were the contractions that
rocked her violently, and then more slowly, and then more slowly as she
felt the bliss of utter release and drifted into the best sleep she'd
had since before she died.
woke up, disoriented, covered with nothing but Spike's duster.
Spike's duster!!!! "'Oh. My. God.'" she murmured, busying herself
with finding her clothes. She insisted that it was all a mistake,
and she had to get home, and she had left Dawn alone, and found herself
in his arms again, her mouth on his, his hand on her breast. But
then he opened his mouth and said those
words, words that instantly called to mind Angelus saying that she
obviously didn't know very much about men, and she had to get out of
there, and she had to hurt him if the soulless thing had anything in him that could be
hurt, and every word out of his mouth after that only made her feel
more nauseous and filthy and diseased.
was desperate to get home, desperate to scrub the sticky blend of semen
and her own juices from between her legs--repeatedly. And then
she remembered his kisses, commanding, demanding, cooling her mouth and
reaching for her throat and his kisses, surrendering, desiring,
inviting her to use his mouth
as she liked. She could
go back for a short time--she
was so late going home already. She imagined the thing he hadn't done that night, his fangs
sinking into a hidden place, like her breast, while his cock pounded
her into oblivion. She had to reach out and steady herself on the
closest building as, without warning, a sudden orgasm pulsed
violently inside her.
What was she thinking of? He was a thing, a dead thing, and an
asshole to boot, mocking her, "'I knew the only thing better than
killing a slayer would be f-'" before she had hit him to shut him
up. Dangling her panties in her face, "'You gonna want these
too?'" Saying things that exploded in her brain, rocking all she
believed: "'I may be dirt, but you're the one who likes to roll in it,
Slayer.'" Her head began to feel like it was collapsing on the
inside. At least she'd gotten him where it had to hurt, spitting it at him
like a curse: "'You're just . . . you're just convenient.'"
tried to walk faster; she had to get home, she had to get away from the
voices in her head, from the feelings in her body, from the desire and
the disgust. She tried to hurry, but the dizziness had overtaken
her again, and when she was safely away in a nearby alley, she threw up.
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