II
Chapter Notes: Be warned…this chapter does contain a non-con scenario. I’m sorry, but since we’re dealing with a soulless and very evil Spike, I just didn’t see a way around it based on my own set-up. And truthfully, I don’t think I’ve made him nearly evil enough, but that’s not my objective. To me, the following is not squicky non-con…and I say that because I was able to write it. Non-con squicks me beyond reason, but I was able to write this without much trouble. Everyone is different, though, and what is not squicky to me might be very squicky to someone else. Just consider yourself thoroughly warned.
Those of you who are very familiar with my writing…all I can say is, trust me. I will not steer you wrong. This is being written for a Valentine’s Day ficathon, after all. =)
She didn’t know how to react when she closed her eyes the next night and found herself in the motel room again. A part of her had expected it; had spent the day trying to dissect her encounter with Spike as she did with all her slayer dreams. Unsurprisingly, her efforts were to little avail. There really was no way to assign meaning to randomly meeting one’s enemy in the subconscious. Spike hadn’t spoken in code, and he’d told her nothing she wouldn’t have figured out on her own.
The only thing she couldn’t explain was the kiss. And truthfully, Buffy wasn’t sure she wanted it explained. She’d already acknowledged Spike as a major hottie; there was no sense in denying it. As a heterosexual female, she was morally obligated to tip her proverbial hat to the hottest of the hot.
And Spike was definitely the hottest. Hands down.
However, gorgeous as he was, he wasn’t the first sexy vampire she’d come across. There had been quite a few hotties, and now they were dust. That was that. She never gave them a second thought once they were gone. Why should she? The job occasionally necessitated slaying eye-candy, and pretty as they were, it was always easy come, easy go.
Her appraisal of the occasional hot vamp never went beyond appreciation. Her appraisal had never translated into dreams of a sexual nature.
This all added up to being wigged. Very wigged. She’d never had a sex-dream about a vampire—not even Angel. And even though her dream hadn’t actually contained sex, it was still closer than anything she’d, erm, dreamt up. So yes, finding the enemy attractive enough to slobber over in her sleep? Yeah, she was of the wigged. And kind of irked that the dream had ended before she could see where the kissage could lead. And then, naturally, irked with herself for being irked in the first place. Spike was the enemy—an evil, nasty vamp who dipped his hands in slayer blood every chance he got.
As of last night, her interest Spike transcended his current status as her mortal enemy and her appreciation for his hotness. And the more she tried to convince herself it was only a dream, the angrier with herself she became.
The day left her little more than tired and confused, and the night wasn’t looking to be any better. And she really wasn’t sure how to react when she found herself in the same room that night. The same motel room, down to the lamp on the nightstand. Everything was the same.
Spike stood next to the bed, looking at her as though she was expected. As though he’d been waiting for her for hours. His eyes were the first thing she saw.
“Back here again?” he asked, his tone clipped, his body tight with tension.
Buffy licked her lips and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Looks like.”
That was all he said. Silence stretched between them.
A long sigh rolled off her shoulders and she collapsed wearily against the wall. She honestly didn’t know if not talking was better than talking; while she really didn’t want to think about what had happened last night more than she had already, ignoring it didn’t make the tension in the room any less palpable. Spike was there, and dream or not, he was real enough to her.
He was real, and the fire he’d ignited in her belly had yet to fade.
God, she didn’t know how she was supposed to deal with this. Spike had rocked her foundation. Spike had made her want him. How on earth was she supposed to dust someone she lusted after? Lusted so badly her lips were still tingling and her panties were soaked at the mere thought of what they’d almost shared.
In the memory of a dream.
But it didn’t feel like a dream, or a fantasy. Not to her. Not during the day, and not right now. She was standing in a foreign motel room with her mortal enemy, and it felt real. It felt so real that she was having an increasingly harder time convincing herself that her body was actually in her bed. That she was wrapped in blankets and Mr. Gordo was tucked securely under her arm. She knew that, but it didn’t make the motel room any less real. She was really in her room and she was really here, too. She was really with Spike.
Her life was so beyond screwed up.
The night went on encompassed in silence. Spike sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He didn’t speak again. Neither did she. They just sat, together but apart. Not talking. Not looking at each other. Not even fighting because, on some level, they knew it wouldn’t do any good. There was nothing to do in the interim but wait for the call of day to tug them back to a reality that made sense.
Buffy’s nights continued like that for weeks. She lived her life as she always did, knowing Spike waited for her in her sleep. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they sat, divided by the awkwardest of awkward silences. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was simply there. Her reoccurring but ever-changing dream.
Sleep had once been her haven—her place where monsters couldn’t chase her, save the occasional prophetic dream. Now her dreams had breached into dual realities. There was nowhere she could turn for rest.
Strangely, Buffy never felt the need to mention her dreams to Giles. There wasn’t anything to gain—no knowledge to uncover. Her dreams weren’t prophetic—they simply were.
Moreover, the dreams were hers. Completely hers. And she wasn’t in the mood to share.
So she lived as though nothing had changed, because ostensibly, nothing had changed. In the day, she would go to school and train in the library as Giles riffled through dusty old books and told her how very much the world was doomed unless she stopped the rising of so-and-so. As Xander did his level best to annoy Angel whenever he was around by bashing the vampire repeatedly over the head with a rolled up newspaper. As Willow hacked into city files and broke through firewalls. As the world went on around her.
The routine repeated itself every day until nightfall. Until Buffy sneaked a peek at the fading sun through the nearest window, stood up and told the Scoobies she had to patrol, and disappeared until the next morning.
Her day progressed beyond patrols. Her day extended into her dreams.
It was every night. Every single night. Every night leading up to Halloween.
Then everything changed.
*~*~*
It took forever to fall asleep.
Buffy hadn’t known how things would change the second she saw Spike again in reality. She’d expected to be unnerved, but beyond that, there was no way to predict how she would react. The dangerous thing, she knew, was to confuse the real Spike with the Spike she saw in her dreams. After all, they hadn’t run into each other since Parent/Teacher Night. Everything she knew about him—in reality—came from what little information Angel was willing to divulge and the pages of Giles’s dusty books.
She didn’t know Spike. Not at all.
But in her mind, she’d spent a lot of time with him. A lot of quiet time, granted, but time nonetheless. And it was damned hard not to mix up the two.
Seeing Spike tonight, after Giles had assured her that Halloween was a day for all unholy things to rest, had thrown her off her game. It didn’t help that he’d cornered her in an abandoned building while she was possessed by her girly costume. It didn’t help that she’d seen something in his eyes—something beyond you’re about to be supper.
She’d seen something.
But that’d been hours ago, and now she was in bed. She was in bed, shaken, and unable to sleep.
Because she knew Spike would be there.
Spike, who had leaned over her tonight with his fangs bared. Spike, who had rubbed his hard cock against her wet, burning body. Spike, who had looked almost betrayed when Ethan’s spell ended and the Slayer returned at full-force.
Spike in reality. Spike in her dreams.
It took forever to fall asleep.
*~*~*
The air split with a deafening roar, and even before the blurred objects in the room could form shape, she found herself slammed to the floor with a snarling vampire straddling her backside. A snarling vampire who had absolutely no qualms in grinding his ferociously hard cock against her ass. He had her right arm pressed to her back and her left pinned to the ground before she could even think about punching him away, and when he leaned down, he made sure that she felt every inch of his body hard against hers.
“You think you can jus’ do that?” he demanded, fangs grazing her earlobe. “You think you can walk away? You think—”
Anger heated her chest. Walk away? Hello! He’d been seconds away from sinking his teeth into her throat before Ethan’s spell fizzled; not to mention, he was the one who bolted. He’d left her after, oh yeah, trying to kill her.
“Not that it matters,” she ground out, “but you’re the one who—”
“I don’t mean that, you infuriating bint!”
“Well forgive me for not reading your obviously unbalanced mind!” She held her breath as he flipped her over, and then—oh God—he was right above her. His legs had her thighs trapped and his cock was rubbing her intimately through their clothes. His eyes were wide and blazing with an addictive symphony of anger drenched in lust.
“You can’t walk away from this,” he growled, his hands settling on her nightshirt and ripping it away before she could squeeze out a gasp. And then she was lying there, beneath him, her naked breasts exposed to the perusal of his hungry, conflicted eyes. “You can’t…” he continued, fingers tracing a soft trail up her abdomen. “You can’t jus’ pretend like this isn’t happenin’.”
“It’s not,” she fired back, though her voice wasn’t nearly as strong as she would have liked. “It’s not.”
Her sanity was dependent on that silver knowledge. This wasn’t real. None of it was. It wasn’t happening. There was no universe in which she would find herself pinned under an angry, evil vampire, her breasts very naked and her nipples hardening under said vampire’s gaze. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
“I told you that firs’ night,” Spike growled, “vampires don’ need rationality. We don’ need logic. We jus’ need a reason, big or small. Real or imagined.” His head dipped, his tongue curling around one of her nipples, and pleasure beyond anything she’d ever felt burst through her body. Oh my God, this had to be a dream. It had to be. All he’d done was lick her boob and she was already hot and…
“Oh my God,” she whimpered, thrusting her breast against his mouth. “Oh my God. Ohhh…”
“I was wrong, wasn’t I?” Spike murmured, his hips moving rhythmically against hers so that his cock hit her center with every thrust. AndGod, if she got any hotter, her flannel pajama bottoms would melt right off. “Bleeding hell…”
“Wrong?”
“He hasn’t touched you. Not like this.” His eyes met hers just as his tongue came back into play, licking her nipple again before his left hand reached between them. “Angelus hasn’t had his merry way with you.”
A bizarre mixture of exhilarated indignation raced through her veins. “That’s none of your—”
“I’m making it my business,” Spike barked, his eyes flashing. “An’ he hasn’t touched you.”
“He’s touched,” Buffy retorted with anger she didn’t truly feel, stifling a moan and thrusting herself wantonly against his cock every time he tried to pull away. Every inch of her was on fire, and only he could calm the flames. “He’s touched plenty of times. He’s touched so much—”
The floor rocked with the slam of his fist. “Enough!”
“Oh, not nearly.”
“He can’t have you, too!” he snarled, biting into her breast. “That greedy wanker can’t have you, too!”
Pain splintered through her body, but it was secondary to pleasure. She was sick. She was certifiable. He was biting her, and all she could do was whimper and rub herself against his clad erection like some sex-crazed porn star. “Oh God!”
Spike released her with a growl, shaking his head furiously. “I knew it. I sodding knew it. I knew coming here was a big, bloody mistake.” He accentuated his revelation with several more punches to the floor, and the whole of her broke into nervous trembles. “I knew she’d…the second she learned…”
Again with the mention of this ever-elusive she. Who was she? And why was Spike so freaking preoccupied with her?
And why did Buffy give a crap?
The answer to the third question was a little easier to come by, but it didn’t make her feel any better.
She swallowed hard. “Who?”
“Doesn’ matter,” Spike growled. “She’s not here.”
But she was. Spike had brought her with him; he always brought her with him. It was what kept him quiet most of the time—what silenced him every night, save for the first. Whoever she was, she was a constant source of pain wrapped in what Buffy could only assume was love.
Only Spike wasn’t with her; he was with Buffy. He was rubbing his cock against Buffy’s soaking pussy, teasing Buffy’s breasts with his mouth. But his mind wasn’t with Buffy. His mind was with the other one. The woman who had learned something powerful enough to drive Spike into a jealous frenzy.
Which, consequentially, was enough to drive Buffy into a jealous frenzy.
There was nothing in her life that made sense right now.
“No,” Buffy whispered, her voice trembling. She lifted her palm to his cheek, her insides rocking when he slowly raised his head to meet her eyes. And what she saw there—the grief and outrage conflicted with specks of awe and wonder—was enough to level mountains. “No, she’s not. She’s not here, Spike. It’s just me.”
“Slayer…”
For long seconds, they stood as a house divided. Night and day. The perpetual partition between light and dark. There was something in his eyes that she’d never seen before; something beyond understanding. Beyond anything she’d ever touched. He looked so lost in that moment. So heartbreakingly lost—as though every true thing he’d ever learned had been turned into a lie. As though every reality was suddenly made fantasy.
It amazed her, watching a war engage behind a man’s eyes. And she saw him—she saw everything. She saw how much he wanted to hate her, and how confused whatever this was had made him. She saw everything, and it as so tragic she found herself nearly moved to tears.
The moment disappeared, and left only angered lust in its wake. Spike growled again, biting at her lips and freeing his cock in a blink. “It’s you,” he barked, his eyes bleeding. “Yeah, yeah, it’s you. Some tarty slayer jus’ waiting to have her pussy crammed full with—”
“Spike!”
His brows perked, a humiliating leer stretching his lips. “With me, eh? Sorry, love. I don’t fuck slayers. I kill them. You can’t make me forget by pretending. By acting like you care.”
Her eyes widened. “No. No, Spike, please—”
“You want me, Slayer? You wanna know how it feels to get fucked rotten by a vampire?” He bit at her lips again. “Angelus’ll never show you. Not that poncy-arse excuse of a pup he’s become.”
“I didn’t mean it,” Buffy whimpered, hating herself for sounding so helpless. So pathetically damsel-y and female. She wasn’t a weak sniveling leaf of a thing; she was the Slayer. She was Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer. And she wasn’t the sort of slayer who cowered under vampires.
Cowering under a vampire in a dream? How pathetic was she?
“What’s it you didn’t mean, Slayer?” Spike demanded, crawling up her body until his cock struck her chin. “Never mind. I don’ care. Open your mouth.”
Buffy’s body tightened with indignation. “Are you—mmmpff!”
“Might as well have some fun,” he purred, swirling his hips and slowly dragging his length between her lips before slamming down again. “Seeing as this is my dream and all.”
“Mmnnauuah!”
“Got a hot li’l mouth, you do.” A long moan ripped through the air, and he shoved his cock so deep into her mouth that his head brushed the back of her throat. “Bleeding hell, Slayer…”
Buffy’s eyes watered, her body trembling with a combination of loathing and shamed arousal. The part of her determined to keep her psyche of this pseudo-reality faded away completely, and everything became painstakingly real. The feel of Spike’s erection pushing into her mouth, the hot whimpers tearing off his lips, and the humiliating way her body responded.
Mostly that last thing.
“Wonder if you’re really this hot,” he rasped, his thrusts growing harder. “Burn me right up, you would. Suck me, baby. Suck me hard.”
She found herself obeying blindly, her tongue rising to caress the underside of his cock as it pumped in and out of her mouth, his balls smacking her chin with every drive. It was, admittedly, the strangest sensation she’d ever experienced—something she’d only read about in trashy romance novels. Something she always suspected she’d never wanted to do, no matter how much she loved the man in question. The whole thing seemed so degrading—a notion not helped by the fact that Spike had straddled her face and was shoving himself so far into her throat that she had to keep from choking.
This is humiliating, she thought, tears spilling down her cheeks. Spike had her pinned in her subconscious, and he was fucking her mouth.
I can’t breathe.
But she didn’t fight it. She couldn’t.
There was a small, sick part of her that was enjoying it too much. Enjoying something the law would define as rape—enjoying the moans that tore through his lips and knowing that she was the reason. That she was giving him pleasure. And the knowledge that she was enjoying it—that despite the tears running down her cheeks and the hot blaze of disgrace searing into her skin—had her hating this for reasons that had nothing to do with Spike and everything to do with her treacherous body.
Why hadn’t Angel ever made her feel like this? For all his gentle touches and his soft kisses, she’d never burned for him—not like she burned for Spike. The memory of Spike’s lips on hers—false or not, dream or not—had followed her for days. And now with his cock in her mouth, with his hips slamming against her, with the rumbles of ecstasy waving through his body, she clung desperately to her outrage. Because if she wasn’t outraged, what did that make her?
Sick. God, I’m so sick.
There was nothing preventing her from throwing him off her body. Her arms weren’t pinned. She could have him slammed against the wall in a blink. She could kick him within an inch of his undead ass. She could make him pay for stripping her dignity and then some.
She could. And she would.
“So good,” Spike whimpered, rubbing himself against her tongue. “Oh yeah, kitten. Jus’ like that. Lick me good.”
Buffy mewled in complaint, her disobedient body relaxing and growing pliant under him. The feel of him thrusting inside her mouth had somehow crossed the boundary from invasive to something she didn’t want to fathom. And before she knew what was happening, a treacherous hand had reached between the monster’s legs, her fingers grazing his ball sac with an odd combination of curiosity and nervousness. The male anatomy was such a foreign thing to her; beyond the crude drawings left on her classroom desks and the unimaginative pictures the school-board okayed for her textbooks, she was left to the often-amusing euphemisms in the aforementioned porn-for-women novels. And while part of her held out on the possibility her exhausted imagination was running away from her, the larger part—the part that was beginning to doubt this was a dream at all—knew the sensations, at least, were very real.
Spike’s cock was in her mouth, his velvety head stabbing the back of her throat with every vicious thrust of his hips. Even if the room around her remained imagined, that much was real.
“Oh fuck,” he gasped, bucking hard against her exploratory touch, his hips rotating to create friction against his balls. “That’s so good.”
Buffy blinked rapidly. “Reary?” she asked around him, and nearly jumped out of her skin when he answered her with a warm chuckle.
“Yes, love. Really.” Then, without warning, he lifted off her, his erection slipping out of her mouth. And to her surprised embarrassment, the first thing that ran through her mind was a scream of protest.
Again divided between realities. There was no way she’d ever lament the loss of Spike’s boy-parts down her throat. Nuh uh. Talk about the ickiest of the ick. Especially when he’d forced her to take him in.
“Bleeding hell, I’m such a git. Such a sodding arse,” he mumbled, rolling away from her, his hand wrapping around her upper arm. “’m sorry.”
More blinking. Did he really just apologize?
“You really haven’t, have you? Fuck, I din’t…you really have never taken it in your mouth before.” It wasn’t a question, though his eyes brightened as though realizing something important—something he hadn’t truly believed before. And then, to her amazement, his face fell with something that looked a lot like shame. A vampire…shamed.
For what he’d done to her.
It didn’t last, of course. Spike remembered himself before she could speak. Before she could focus too long on the concept of remorse from an evil thing. And in a blink, any hint of compunction was gone, and he was looking at her again. Not with guilt or pride, but with calm understanding.
“That’s right, innit?” he prompted. “Slayer…”
Buffy’s skin reddened and she nodded slowly. She hadn’t taken it anywhere, much less in her mouth. She’d thought her lack of experience was common knowledge, if only because a virginal high school student was more than a rarity. Even in small towns, she figured she practically had it tattooed on her forehead.
A long, tortured moan tore through the air. Spike’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’m a git,” he murmured. “I’m such a bloody git. Your firs’ time…it shouldn’t’ve been like that. Not with me. Not with…shouldn’t have been…but Christ, why the bleeding hell do I even care? ‘S not like this is real, right? ‘S not like…I don’…”
She found the torn confusion in his voice oddly comforting.
His brow furrowed and his fangs receded, his eyes melting from yellow to blue as they deepened with realization. “You’re…you an’ Angelus have never…”
Buffy fidgeted self-consciously. “Not like it’s any of your business.”
“You jus’ had my prick in your delectable li’l mouth, Slayer. I’d say it’s become my business.”
“I didn’t ask for that!”
A slow, devilish grin tickled his mouth. “Maybe not,” he agreed, his eyes raking the length of her. “But you loved it.”
It was her dream, so she should be able to control how fast her heart was beating or how red her skin became. “Ugh! You wish you…perv guy.”
Spike’s eyes twinkled. “Don’ have to wish,” he replied, licking those sinful lips of his. “I can smell you.”
Oh God. Buffy’s blood ran cold, her thighs pressing together instinctively. He could really smell that? She smelled? Being all hot and bothered made her smell hot and bothered? There wasn’t a big enough rock to crawl under if that was the truth.
Because earlier tonight, pinned under Spike with his demon eyes boring into her, his fangs glimmering in quick flashes of moonlight, she’d never been so turned on in her life. Had Angel and her friends not been present, she might have done something embarrassing—like explore Spike’s lips to see whether or not her dreams had been accurate.
“You’ve really never been touched?” Spike repeated expectantly, running a hand down her naked arm. And just like that, she remembered she was sitting beside him with her boobs all perky and on display. However, before she could throw her arms protectively over her chest, one of her breasts was in Spike’s palm, and her resistance melted at the slightest brush of his fingers against her nipple.
“You’re purity,” he whispered, almost dazed. “Bleeding hell, Slayer, you’re…”
The note of near reverence in his voice was such a step away from anything she’d heard from him, and it had her shaking harder than she wanted to admit. It would be so easy to cave in. The way he was touching her…the look in his eyes…the tremble in his voice. She had no idea what had happened or why. Why he was suddenly looking at her like she’d been touched by Heaven when, just a few minutes ago, he’d held no reservation about forcing himself into her mouth. And God, his behavior was doing a number on her mind. She was confused about him and confused about her confusion. There should be no inner debate. There shouldn’t be anything but revulsion, but she couldn’t hate him. Even after this.
He was a monster but there was more to it; and it’d be so easy. So easy to forget he’d hurt her. Forget he was a vampire—a vampire with a rap sheet filled with slayer-killage, not to mention obsession. He also had another woman in his life—one he loved.
Something sharp jabbed her heart.
“I’m not pure,” she whispered.
“Bollocks. I’m a vampire, love. I know somethin’ about impurity.” Spike smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re nothin’ butpure.”
Something had changed. She didn’t know what, but something had changed. Gone was the heartless bastard of before; she was sitting with a completely different man. One who looked at her with something beyond hate-driven lust. One who looked at her with…something.
“And you…like pure?” Buffy asked, wincing. “I mean…vamp and all, right? It doesn’t seem like pure’s—”
“I…” Spike blinked and shook his head, meeting her gaze again with tentativeness that surprised her. As though he was trying to reconcile thought with feeling. She could almost see a battle unfolding—one she couldn’t touch, merely witness. One beyond the planes of logical understanding.
Their eyes remained locked for long time. So long that Buffy forgot she was half-naked, and that Spike’s hand remained at her breast. However, the silence splitting them made her painfully self-aware, and before she could stop herself, her gaze had dropped to his lap. To the hard cock lying across his stomach.
“Ohh—umm…”
Spike grinned, his other hand dropping, curled fingers stroking his length proudly. “You liked it before, din’t you?” he murmured. “You can fight me all you want, sweetheart, but the truth’s a li’l harder to hide from, innit?”
And quickly—very quickly—her conscientiousness returned. “I didn’t—”
“Did so. ‘S all right to like it, kitten. There’s no one here but you an’ me…for some bloody reason.” Spike sighed. “An’ we can’t even trust that much, can we?”
“You don’t think it’s a dream?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore. Feels real…that’s for bloody sure.” He paused, then released her breast so abruptly she couldn’t help the long moan of complaint that hissed through her lips. “He hasn’t touched you,” he murmured, grabbing her wrist and bringing her hand to his cock. “He hasn’t…that makes you mine, kitten.”
Buffy exhaled slowly, her wide eyes enamored with what she was seeing. God, with what she was doing. With little to no provocation, she found herself curling her fist around his length, getting a feel for him in her hand. He was so thick. So…well, big, for lack of a better word. And though she had nothing by which to offer a basis for comparison, she had the idea that Spike’s size was the sort of thing that could give most guys an inferiority complex to end all inferiority complexes. Or perhaps he just seemed large to her—she didn’t know. All she knew was his erection was in her hand and it filled it to all proportions.
He’d just said she was his. She belonged to him. A smart slayer would argue with him. A smart slayer would put up a fight. A smart slayer would let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she could never belong to an evil thing.
She somehow doubted, though, that any of her dead sisters had been in her position. Dreaming herself a new reality with a vampire out to kill her. A vampire whose hand was covering hers, coaxing her to pump his length slowly. A vampire whose eyes kept flickering from her naked breasts to the sight of her hand pulling at his cock.
No. No other slayer had experienced this. This was something that belonged to Buffy, and Buffy alone.
Spike moaned, thrusting upwards in time with the strokes of her hand. “Oh God,” he whimpered. “That’s perfect, that is.”
“What is?” she whispered. “What—”
“Just keep like that,” he murmured, flashing her a reassuring grin. A grin she didn’t catch; she was too mesmerized by the movements of her hand. How could something so small give anyone such pleasure? All she did was touch him, and she’d somehow rendered him into a babbling vampire. A babbling vampire whose babbles made her hotter by the minute. The whimpers and gasps spilling through his lips had her insides burning almost to the brink of pain. Her pussy was drenched and her nerves were buzzing, and if he didn’t touch her soon, she was sure she’d melt into a puddle of slayer-goo.
“Fuck…you’re so warm,” Spike gasped, his eyes rolling up. “So…God, so perfect.”
Perfect?
“Need to come. Need…” Again, he curled his fingers around her wrist, halting her movements. “Touch me where you did before,” he ordered, his voice hoarse.
“Where—”
He guided her hand to his testicles again. “Squeeze me gently…oh God, yes.” A flash of pure euphoria washed across his face, and he threw his head back with a long, tortured moan. “Now your mouth. Put your mouth on me.”
Buffy blinked. “I—”
“Jus’ like before, love. God, please.” His eyes widened in desperation. “I’ll tell you when to pull away, yeah? I won’t come in your mouth. I jus’…you’re so hot. I need—”
There was every chance she would regret this tomorrow. Dream or not, doing what he asked pushed everything past borderline to real.Made it official that this was something she wanted, too. And she did—she wanted it here. In this place composed of nowhere. There wasn’t a world outside these walls. There wasn’t anything but a motel room, and something kept bringing her here.
Something kept bringing her here. She was hopeless to do anything but answer its call.
Spike pulled her hair out of her face as her mouth dipped toward his cock, his gentle touch doing little more than confusing the hell out of her. But she didn’t stop to think—she was too hungry for what he offered. Instead, her tongue tentatively curled around the tip of him, slurping him between her lips.
“Oh God,” he whimpered, arching upward and urging his cock deeper inside her mouth. “You’re so hot.”
“Mmmm…”
“I’m not gonna last,” he gasped. “Need to come. Needed to come so bloody bad. Squeeze me, kitten. Don’t be afraid to hurt me. Not gonna break.”
She nodded, the hand at his balls remembering itself. Her mouth was tentative in her explorations, aided by the gentle thrust of his hips. She had no idea if she was doing this right, or if there was even a right way to do it. But she found herself dancing with him in no time—following him whenever he started to slide away from her, determined to keep him where she wanted him. Her tongue rubbed his underside almost roughly, then took time to skim the length of him as he pumped himself between her lips.
She liked this—this feeling of control. She liked having Spike writhing under her ministrations. She liked knowing that she could reduce a being of such power and authority into a whimpering mess with only her tongue and lips. Hell, she was even growing to like the taste of his skin. All thoughts of perversion or wrong were tossed aside. This wasn’t degrading at all.
Not when she got to do it the way she wanted to do it.
Of course, that much could be called into question with one simple word.
“Stop!”
Buffy froze, her wide eyes trailing upward. Her mouth, however, remained stubbornly locked around him. She’d stop when she damn well felt like stopping, thank you very much.
“Stop!” Spike gasped again. “You gotta stop. Gonna come. You don’ want—”
Oh. And he made her stop for that? Why? Did he think she couldn’t take it?
She’d show him.
Eyes narrowed in defiance, Buffy huffed and sucked him in as far as she could. What she couldn’t take into her mouth, she rubbed encouragingly with her free hand. She drew him in until his head was once again pressed to the back of her throat. And, without ceremony, she began swallowing hard around him. He’d liked that enough before; something told her this would send him over the edge.
Spike’s eyes went so wide it nearly looked painful. “Buffy!”
So that’s what it took to get him to remember her name. She merely grinned around him and kept on swallowing. She swallowed as he bucked wildly off the floor. As he shook and moaned. As he spilled himself into her throat, making a prayer of her name with every needless breath that left his lips.
This had sealed her fate. Her life wouldn’t be the same after this. Reality didn’t matter anymore. Not with Spike looking at her as he was now. Like that.
“Buffy,” he gasped. “My God.”
Everything had changed. It’d happened so fast, but everything had changed.
And there was no going back.
TBC
Author’s notes (cont’d): I tried to fulfill two of the challenge requirements in this part, but likely not the way I was supposed to. Basically, I didn’t trust myself to pull off the following in a believable fashion. So bonus points if you can find the very discreet interpretations of the following in text:
1.) Buffy standing up to the Scoobies (Really, what I did here is so incredibly literal, it’s almost the equivalent of a really bad pun)
2.) Angel bashing