Chapter 12
Buffy opened her eyes and looked at the clock. It was just after nine. Gradually she became aware of the cool hard chest flush against her back and the cool hard cock gliding effortlessly and slowly in and out of her body. Slowly she started to respond to that now familiar sensation. Oh god. Spike.
Gentle deep tones of hushed desire filtered from Spike’s throat through her body. “There’s the sleepy girl…so soft and warm…been waiting for you to wake up…thought I’d give you a nudge, yeah?…Lovely…sleepy girl…bet you taste good in the morning…” The tip of his index finger traced a strand of hair away from her eye. His touch was so comforting, soft and firm.
Buffy closed her eyes with a sigh and Angel was there. Soft confused brown eyes…mouth open and disbelieving…the sword thrust…that horrible sucking vortex and the end of her world as Angel disappeared into the void.
Buffy erupted from the bed, kicking wildly at Spike and the bedcovers.
“STOP! Not like that, stop!” She sprang from the bed shaking, a volcanic pain coursing through her mind. When at last she focused on the figure in bed a horrified expression gripped her face. Spike lay naked and shameless before her, his torso littered with scratches and bite marks. He stared at her with eyes thickened by returning lust.
Buffy’s mind quaked. A shameful recollection emerged: the belt on Spike’s wrists, his goading lust filled encouragement, the bitter taste of his blood, and how he howled as he came. The unsullied truth of his need galvanized and hardened her as he spoke his desire.
He said yes. He said again. He said more.
She had done this damage, tasted his flesh and flayed his skin with her fingernails and teeth and a hunger that rumbled deep within her bones. That was all her, from some darkness she tried so hard to repress. That was the kiss of the devourer.
A sassy tired voice spoke up. “Who would have guessed? Fucking all night makes the Slayer a cranky girl.” She forced her mind to calm. The sensations of the previous night’s ecstasies mingled with her horrible memories of that awful day. Buffy’s mind shook. An unwanted tingling sparked in her pelvis. She felt nauseated and trapped: an animal in a snare. Escape was the only option.
“Get out.”
“Sun’s up,” he repositioned himself on the bed ready for more.
“OUT!” she pointed desperately at the door.
“NO,” he growled at her.
Buffy fled into the bathroom and slammed the door. She wretched in long painful dry heaves. Her stomach emptied hours ago, so only the whispers of bile touched the back of her throat. She sat on the toilet with her head between her legs trying to find firm ground.
The truth rose within her with each violent and elongated heave. She deserved punishment. She hadn’t expected Spike to make her feel as he had. Spike did not fulfill his role of villain as she had cast him.
Darkness and misery was what she wanted but Spike was not accommodating. He did not fill her with darkness. She felt alive again and she did not want to feel that. He peeled back her self-imposed barrier and let in the light, the air, and with it the memory of Angel impaled by her hand and sinking into that horrific tempest.
After the toilet tank stopped filling she started the shower. She buried her head in that fierce stream, rinsing her mouth compulsively and trying to wash the taste of that horrible image away.
Her only pitiful consolation was that Angel would never know what she had done and what she had become. She was just an empty shell who let Spike fuck her. As her mind drifted to just exactly what Spike had done with her during the night, ‘fuck’ didn’t seem descriptive enough to cover it.
An urgent need to wash the night away swept through her. She felt stained from the attentions of a thorough lover. As the shower curtain shifted and Spike stepped inside the bathtub, Buffy snapped from her stupor.
“What is it, love?” he asked softly, back to the persona of a lover. Buffy glared at him. She would use every last molecule of slayer strength bestowed upon her not to tell him anything. He was not worthy to know her truth, to know that she’d sent Angel to hell and not Angelus. Spike was nothing to her and he would never be anything to her. This thing they did was a glitch that needed to go away fast.
“Go away,” she gruffed.
Ignoring her, Spike filled his palm with shampoo and lathered her hair. Despite her best efforts, Buffy uncoiled beneath his skilled fingers. Soon she simply leaned into this chest with eyes closed as long ropes of shampoo lather coiled down their bodies. He shampooed his own hair and then rinsed them both thoroughly.
She felt the sensation of tasting his voice when he spoke. “You don’t want me to be gentle?” he murmured, lifting her wide against the slick wall tiles before she had sense enough to protest. “Is that it? Want to pretend I can’t do this?” He slid into her still swollen passage softly.
“You have no idea what I’m capable of Slayer. I know what gentleness is…”
Spike could not believe the words he was hearing spill from his lips. He didn’t stop to think, as usual he went with his gut impulse. He guided her legs around his waist and held her securely with his hands tucked under her bottom.
Something deep inside him knew that the last few hours were the most dangerous risk of his long, visceral life. He ignored that truthful voice with sullen defiance. The Slayer was so rich and decadent he could not stop. Suddenly he wanted things he’d never thought of before.
He wanted her sighs and coos, to see her eyes full of him. He wanted to be gentle for her and to have her blood on his tongue forever. Deep within his leathered shell his most secret yearnings came forward.
He wanted to be a part of something, to belong in the world. He wanted to matter, to be allowed and connected. He wanted his invitation in a decadently thick gold embossed envelope. He wanted a freedom beyond the tasting and for his thirst, at last, to be quenched.
These desires flooded his mind and clogged his thinking. It had been a long time since his desires expanded beyond blood or sex, the narrow confines of the flesh. These unrestrained thoughts were doubly intoxicating for their perverseness.
Now he started thinking in ways he’d denied himself for decades. A word…a thought…a possibility beyond what he had known, what he’d been content to be: Drusilla’s own.
Something from long ago tickled his mind, something from the old days, his human days. It was ridiculous but it wouldn’t let him alone. What was that story again? Something about conversion, change. Becoming oneself. Saul on the road to Damascus.
Becoming.
Spike thought such things were long past. Drusilla was his salvation. She delivered him from mediocrity. She was his conversion, his road to Damascus, traveled all those years ago in another century. Was such a thing even possible again?
It was worth thinking about, but later. He had a slayer in his arms and his own rising needs to tend to.