herself_nyc (herself_nyc) wrote in herself_nyc_fic, @ 2007-08-29 20:44:00 |
|
|||
"I hate you!"
"Hate you double. Hush. God, you're so warm."
"Whatwhatwhat are you doing?"
"Ssssh. Here's your stake." He put it back in her hand as if restoring a toy to an insecure child. She squeezed it in her fingers even as she was burying her own mouth in his neck, into that place under the sharp square box of his jaw that she liked, where her licks made him shiver.
They'd both stopped moving. Spike's arms around her were firm. He wasn't breathing, and she'd reined in her sobs, so now she could hear the sea, away below, as the tide was changing, stirring up against the rocks with hard slaps, roaring in and out, sounding closer and closer.
She wrenched herself away. Spike's arms parted. He stayed where he was, laid out on his back as if she'd felled him, while she got to her feet.
His eyes were fixed on her face, unflinching, glittering out of the gathering lumps and bruises she'd inflicted. He watched her, and waited. She tested the point against her denimed thigh.
The stake felt alive in her fist. She couldn't let him walk away from this melt-down. Couldn't risk that he'd tell others about it. That he'd taunt her with it the next time they met.
Now, now, now. Finish it.
Spike licked the streaked blood from his lips. "Slayer. Listen."
No. No talking. Just lie there and get staked. "Whuwhat?"
"'M sorry."
At first the words, barely audible, meant nothing. Just sounds that ricocheted around in her brain.
He sat up slowly, cradling his head for a moment like he had a hangover, like he was sick. Then he stood. "Didn't know how it would be, when I sent you off."
No no no this is SO not happening. She kicked out, so a clod of dirt and grass flew up and thumped him in the throat.
"Oh, very nice!" Spike said, brushing the soil off his clothes. "Tryin' to say something here! Tryin' to explain myself."
"I'm not talking to you. I'm" What? She was supposed to slay. She raised the stake. Her wrist throbbed.
"Are you listenin'! I didn't know I'd ...." He stopped, frowning. Jammed his hands in his jeans pockets. "Nothin's any good. Got my soul out, thought I'd be right again, be free. But I can't hunt, can't kill, not a one since I left you! Came here, thought slaughterin' you would fix me up ... but I see it won't. All's I feel is ...." He pulled his hands out, lifted them helplessly. Then his eyes flashed, heat-lightning on a hot still night. Voice dropping into an accustory growl. "It's not just me. You feel it too."
"I don't know what you mean." Her whole body flushed and flared, wild conflicting urges to flee, to throw herself against him, ran through her like shocks. He had to be onto that, he could smell her thoughts. Still she tried to sell him the line she was only barely herself. "Anyway, why should I believe anything you say? Why should I ever trust you again? Notnotnot that I ever did! Not for one red second!"
"Come an' stake me, then. Come on." He drew his shirt open again. Stood foresquare before her, hands behind his back. "Do your job, Slayer."
She couldn't, and he knew that she couldn't, and it killed her, to stand before him unable to control herself, unable to treat him like all the others. The white heat of her humiliation burned across her face, and the backs of her knees, and low down in her belly. It was hard to breathe. Her whole frame trembled. It was all she could do to hang onto the stake, in her sweat-slicked hand.
"Spike, get out of here. I mean it. If I see you again, I will use this stake. If you want to live, leave here."
He looked at her, shoulders back, hands away, his head slowly tilting, lips slowly parting. It was unbearable.
"Spike, go!"
"Not without you."
Oh God oh God oh God. In a little while she could jump off the cliff, dash herself to death on the rocks, for this failure and disgrace. In a little while. But now, in exchange for that appointment, she let the stake fall for the last time, went to him with open hands, and took what she was burning for. His shape in her arms, his mouth on hers. He lifted her up, a grateful crooning coming from his throat, gathering her in past the leather to curl around his body, to smell his subtle aromas and taste his coppery tongue and the quicksilver of his skin. She heard herself groan, and his arms tightened. He balanced her against the top of a stone, a sudden hard chill against her ass.
"I've got you. I've got you," he murmured, when their mouths broke. They were rocking a little, clasped together, but it wasn't sexualmore like they'd snatched each other back from the lip of some cascading disaster, and were questing each other for wounds, enraptured to find each other whole.
Buffy gasped. "How can I believe"
"Believe what? Christ you smell good."
"I can't trust that you haven't ... I mean, I mustn't trust a word you say. You're a vampire. I can't do this!"
Without the soul, what was he? How could this be happening? How could she, despite her protests, be doing it anyway? Her fingers combing through his crisp soft hair, tugging his head down, keeping his wonderful mouth close to hers. Her eyes were shut so tight that crazy colors were going off in the black.
Then Spike's hands were cupping her face, his thumbs gliding across her lashes, so she had to open and look at him.
Look at him while he said, "Lyin's never been my vice. You know that."
"I don't. Why should I?" I'm the liar, she thought, as the silly protests emerged.
Spike seemed to be ignoring what she said in favor of other hints. Cradling her head in his hands. "Told myself I'd kill you first, an' then it would all come good. But that's all blown to bloody bits. You've ruined me for all of that."
It occurred to her, with a horrified fascination that made her want to give way to a paroxysmal retch, that she might have stayed with him all this time, in a state that seemed in retrospect like such bliss, if only he'd let her. Without knowing anything was different, if he'd gone on treating her the same way, being the same way. Nothing like Angel-into-Angelus. Stranger, maybe. More sly. Or ... or she didn't know what. There was nothing in her slayer training to account for any of this.
But she'd still be with him. And maybe she'd have guessed the soul was gone, only if nothing was ever explicitly said, by either of them ... Oh no. Oh no, what have I become?
She couldn't bear to think about it. Thinking was bad. She needed action. She needed escape.
She started tugging at his clothes.
"Slayeryou hearin' me?"
"Shut up!"
"Oilisten"
"If you want me to stay here, you have to shut up!" She'd yanked his shirt up from his jeans, and was struggling with his belt.
Spike was frozen, so that for a long moment she was afraid he was going to argue, or pull away. But then his hands covered hers, making the belt buckle and the fly buttons come away, helping her to what she wanted even as he got to work on her own. In a moment she was tipped back on the top of the stone, her naked legs wrapping around him, his rising cock prodding her inner thigh as she caught his mouth again with hers. Kisses like the first gasps of air after near-drowning. His fingers, cool and just slightly rough at the tips, explored her sex, spreading her moisture up and out, teasing her clit with little flicks. She pushed yearningly against his hand, his thigh, his erection that was right there but not inside her yet, reaching for it even as she held on to him with the other arm around his neck.
"Spikeplease"
When he entered her, drawing her legs well up under his arms, tipping her back, the wet rocks below flashed again in her mind, as if they were rising to meet her plummeting body. Then they were gone, replaced just by him, his eyes intent on her, his panting growling mouth, the cheeks sucked in as he took her, slow and possessive.
"Oh," he said. "Oh." He sounded like he'd vastly underestimated his need. Awe and reverence.
She'd thought she needed it fast and hard enough to obliterate all doubt, all thought. But he made it something else, and she couldn't resist the languorous pace he set, or the fascination of hanging in his gaze. His eyes seemed to devour her, to gather everything she hadn't realized about herself, didn't want to admit, into their comprehending depths. He was strangely quietshe'd already forgotten that she'd demanded that.
She wished this would never stop. She couldn't believe she'd done without this, lived as if she'd never have it again. She must've been half dead an hour ago, without this.
Without him.
Slow, slow, in and out, slick and wet and full.
"Sweet. Sweet. Sweet." He whispered into her mouth, like feeding her little bites of what she so hungered for. She answered him in kitten moans, all she could manage, trying to draw this out, to keep its perfection from breaking.
She didn't even want to come, because that would make it over. She couldn't imagine what could possibly be after this. Nothing good.
Nothing else ever ever ever good, after this.
"Spike. Spike. Oh God, please. Bite me. Have me." What better way to end this terrible trouble? To die of him.
He moved her, laid her on the ground without uncoupling, covered her, buried his mouth in her neck as he took his deep slow toe-curling thrusts, making her ripple and flush, weep and beg. But the change, the bite, didn't come. Instead he urged her, even as she struggled against it, to an upswell of pleasure that she couldn't parse from despair.
She couldn't think of the last time she'd cried so much in front of someone else. Much less him, this demon, the hated enemy. He kissed her, drinking her tears, petting and stroking her. When she could see him again, he was smiling. Enjoying, she thought, her distress.
How could he do this to her? Reject her, and then return only to reject her again?
She didn't know she'd spoken, in the midst of her sobs, until he answered her. "Didn't I just love you right?"
She wanted to show her fury, to punish him for not biting her, not ending this for her. But all she could produce were these rolling sobs. "No. No. No. No."
He held her, twined by arm and leg. His face right up close to hers. "Forgive me, yeah? Got to forgive me. I didn't know. Didn't know I was all yours. Got nothin' to do with the soul, Slayer. It's you."
"Why won't you? I needed you to bite me."
"Hush, hush. Don't cry, Miss Anne. Won't hurt you anymore."
"I can't do this. Don't you know I can't do this?" Already she was feeling the chill on her bare flesh, the juices of their exertion drying. The moon had shifted its position. She couldn't stay here forever in his arms, not even for another hour. She'd have to go home, where her mother was, where Faith was, and in the morning she'd have to go to school again and deal with GilesWesleyXanderWillowOzCordyohnoplease
Spike smoothed her breeze-whipped hair. "Know it's no good. We were never supposed to fall in love with each other." It was a surprise, that he'd admit it so blatantly.
That they both would. She couldn't pretend it wasn't true.
"I didn't know either ... not until just now." She raised her head to look at him, feeling bleak and sick.
He looked bleak too. "Not proper, is it." Again he reached for her stirring hair. "Yet who could see you, an' not be in love?"
"Spike, don't. What I said beforeyou have to go. Just go, tonight, and don't come back. Otherwise I'll have to slay you, and if I don't, Faith will."
His face darkened. "Right. T'other one. Heard about her, round an' about. Well, she'll stick an' do the job, when you're gone."
"Spike"
"Come away with me, Miss Anne. Let's just go. I'll take you to Mexico, like we'd planned, or anywhere."
"Stop it."
"Know you're not happy here. Why won't you come with me?"