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This fic was Runner Up Best Episode Stealer at: |
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| ...BUT NOT FORGOTTEN |
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AUTHOR: Rabid, Raeann, 1stRab-id |
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BETA:� Nautibitz, who was right...and the good folks at OGD who answered my question. |
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SUBJECT: B/S |
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RATING: NC-17 |
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SPOILERS: Season 6 episodes GONE and DOUBLEMEAT PALACE |
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SUMMARY: �Hard to say...this is a PWP of sorts, Spike's POV and then Buffy's POV about the reaction of Buffy in DMP's alley scene.� If you have seen the eppy or read the spoilers you know the scene of which I speak.� Many of you are depressed...I was and then was not.� Anyway...this is another interpretive dance. |
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DISCLAIMER: Ackkk! I may well fall under the great and powerful wrath of the almighty OZ...or his creator Joss Whedon and the parent companies of Fox, Mutant Enemy and UPN...please know that I hereby offer all due homage...not mine, I own nothing but my little idea "hey, JW...you can have that too...if you want. |
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SPIKE |
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He swore he wouldn't do this.�� Not again.� Not after last time.� A man had to take a stand.� And he had.� He had taken the bloody pledge.� He was better than this...well part of him was at any rate. Not his heart, of course.� Not his cock either, apparently. |
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He had thrown her out.� That was the thing Spike held onto in the night.� Shaking and cold and needing, he reminded himself over and over again.� He had thrown her out.� How many nights ago?� Three? Four...if he could count tonight!� But tonight didn't count, now, did it? |
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She stood there in the half-light.� In the red and white striped polyester uniform that smelled of stale grease and other people's sweat.� She'd taken off her hat inside.� Brushing her hair back from her face with one hand, she pulled through it with her fingers just as he would do if he was closer to her.� Like he did the last time...when he could only feel her beneath him, surrounding him.� When all he had was touch and sound and scent to remind him of her.� And God, that was the better deal...far better than this seeing. |
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He stood, under the nimbus of the streetlamp, on the far side of the parking lot.� He was angry.� He stirred the embers of his anger, trying to raise the blaze of it.� It was so easy to be angry with her.� She used him like a drug.� He was her cheap, transient thrill.� He shamed her.� She hid her eyes from him, hid her face, even as she let him access her body.� Because she could disown her body.� Her perfect body, six months dead, that someone had stolen from the grave and someone else had cloistered in invisibility.� |
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Safe behind her blank walls, she dismissed him, belittling his love for her.� She would let him service her or pay her homage.�� But she denied him.� Just as she denied herself; his love and her truth.� She denied him everything that mattered.� Everything but the haunted look in her eyes, the quiver in her lower lip and the soft moan of her pleasure. |
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It wasn't that he didn't know.� It wasn't even that he didn't understand.� Spike knew he was her only joy in life, the one thing that made the blood course through her veins.� But he could not let that sway his stand.� He knew her.� Had known her a long, long time.� Five years and all eternity.� He knew her as his enemy and his judge.� As his battle-scarred companion and his sweet love.� So many variations on the theme.� They circled one another, helplessly, relentlessly, both caught in the gravitational pull of togetherness.� |
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And as he circled her, through the years, Spike watched.� He studied.� He'd seen the other men.� He'd seen them try to reach her.� Seen them struggle, fail and leave.� And still she was untouched behind her walls.� Virginal inside, veiled, and unrelenting in her vigilance.� He meant to touch her, make her burn, make her weep.� He meant to make her his.� Because, in truth, she was already.� He knew her as no other ever had.� He knew her deep and well. She could lie to anyone, everyone, even lie to herself.� But she couldn't lie to him. |
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"Please don't make this any harder," she whispered in his head.� And yet, she left him no other choice.� She took the hard road, forcing him to travel it with her. |
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She stepped away from the heavy metal door and tilted her head toward the alley.� It wasn?t a question or a hopeful suggestion.� It was a command.� Spike felt an immediate pull in his groin and the center of his chest.� He didn't think.� He walked toward her reflexively.� Choke chain invoked.� Heel, Spike.� Alright then! |
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The alley was dim and dank.� It smelled of homelessness, rotted food and stale urine.� She was waiting by the dumpster, half-turned away.� Veiled again, this time by shadows. He opened his mouth to say something.� Maybe to reiterate his stand on being used or maybe to reprimand her on her foolish behavior.� It didn't really matter.� |
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"Don't talk," she commanded, taking his hand and guiding him to the back wall of the restaurant, "just touch me." |
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So there was no mistake of her meaning, she released him and unzipped her pants, sliding the fabric down her thighs.� Spike felt the anger flare in his eyes.� He glared at her, unable to believe her audacity.� |
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"Bitch," he thought. "Heartless, Demon Bitch. I told you no more! And I won't touch you. I'll be buggered if I'll touch you." |
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But he touched himself.� His hands moved of their own accord.� His impatient fingers tugged at his belt buckle.� Pulling down his zipper, he fondled himself free of the restraining denim.� He was already lubricated.� Holding himself and holding her gaze, Spike circled his thumb over the head of his shaft, spreading the pearl of fluid. |
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He stepped in and positioned the tip of his cock against her.� He stroked her with his slick velvet softness.� She wasn't ready for him.� She wasn't even close.� She was barely damp and locked down tight.� Beyond tight, actually.� There was only the finest hint of an opening between her legs.� His eyes flickered up, questioning.� She turned her head away.� Her face was impassive, like a Renaissance painting.� Something portraying the rape of the Christian martyrs.� |
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"What?" he wanted to scream at her. "What do you want from me?" |
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But he already knew.� He had seen it in her eyes, in that brief second of contact.� She wanted to feel alive.� She was dying inside. �And it wasn't the hero's death that was her due.� It was a death by inches, the birthright of everyone in this bloody harsh world.� She didn't want sex.� She wanted her lover's touch.� She wanted her body to take over and make things simple for her.� And Spike had already told her no. |
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Three nights ago, he'd said it aloud, surprising himself.� Jerking her up off her knees.� Pushing her toward his stairs.� Impassively, taking the struggle and the slap and the petulant squeak from her.� No more.� No more mindless, breathless flesh.� No more reacting without feeling, stumbling blindly forward.� No more handing off of the hard decisions to someone else. No more denying and having at the same time. |
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No more denying and having?� Spike snorted, mocking himself as his mindless, breathless flesh pressed hard and wet against her.� Of course, she would have her way.� He could deny her nothing.� He was her prey.� She knew just how to take him down.� But he wasn't going to help her do it. |
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There was no possibility of entering her like this.� Nothing to be gained against Slayer resistance.� She needed his touch to open her.� But that's where he drew the line.� Instead, he let his shaft slip horizontally between her thighs.� Thrusting along her surface, Spike stimulated them both with the friction.� But he kept his hands on the wall.� He was determined not to hold or kiss her.� Not to give her anything more than gravity demanded. |
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She was hobbled by her slacks.� They were pushed down past her knees but still they kept her legs closed.� Too close together for him to have easy access.� Finally, she reached out.� Took him in hand.� Fingers trembling, she settled him at Heaven's door.� He dipped low at the hips to accommodate their difference in height and waited for her to make the next move. |
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Buffy took him in.� She eased herself open, relaxing her thighs.� She gripped his upper arms tight as she rocked her pelvis back and forth and side-to-side.� She worked her vaginal muscles around him, taking him in a half-inch at a time.� He was large and she was barely damp.� He knew it pained her as she stretched to fit him.� |
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Spike's fingers fanned out and his head dropped low as his lover swallowed up his entire length.� Her inner walls pulsed against him and she melted, just a little.� Now that she had him all the way inside. |
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"Oh, god, Buffy," he whispered and immediately cursed his traitorous tongue. |
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But his tongue was unrepentant.� It continued murmuring barely legible words.� His mouth watered, craving the taste of her.� But he denied himself.� He began, instead, to move, bobbing and swaying with her, taking the lead in their dance.� It was a slow dance.� It made him long to hold her close.� But she avoided him.� She tossed her head back and shut her eyes.� |
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She didn't want intimacy or love from him. She wanted to whore herself.� To pretend that's all she was to him, a conquest.� To pretend that all he was to her was a convenience.� She wanted cigarette-break sex.� Nasty, back-alley sex.� The kind that pays the bills. |
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And Spike complied, knowing it wouldn't satisfy her.� It failed to satisfy him.� But at least, it made him come.� It was over far too quickly, like masturbation.� Nothing more than a mechanical exercise, the right fit, the pumping slickness and the shuddering release.� He waited inside her.� Waited for her to offer him some sign of desire, some further need he could fulfill.� She pushed away.� And, still spurting, he slid free of her confines. |
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They adjusted themselves.� Both looking down, preoccupied with zippers and buttons.� A tiny rivulet of his seed trickled along her inner thigh.� A token.� From him, not her.� She never let him go that easily.� It wasn't much.� But it captured Spike's attention.� It was enough to remind him that she'd trapped his seed within her.� She held him, now, inside her body.� The thought was enough to arouse him anew.� He shifted toward her, inhaling their intermingled scents.� |
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"Later," he said, not making it a question. "My place. I'll make you feel it, too. Make you happy again." She ducked her head, already moving away. |
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Spike pounced.� He slammed his fists into the wall on either side of her and Buffy jumped, looking up.� Their eyes locked.� He mesmerized her.� He matched her ragged breathing with his own and held her gaze for ten long seconds before he came in close to her ear. Rubbing against her cheek like a contented tabby, stirring her hair, he whispered the words she dreaded and yet longed to hear. |
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"I love you,"he said, roughly. |
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And the Slayer broke and ran. |
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| GO TO PART 2 ...BUFFY |
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| OTHER AWARD WINNERS |
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| MORE FICTION |
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HOME |
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