herself_nyc (herself_nyc) wrote in herself_nyc_fic, @ 2008-05-06 10:30:00 |
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All previous parts of WAITING AROUND are here (locked) or here (open to all).
They went out after that, ostensibly to patrol, but it was more of a walk. Buffy took his hand. Part of him rebelled at the gestureall this time he'd been with her, was it for nothing but pity? When had the slayer ever been so gentle and kind, especially to the likes of him? Already he was feeling foolish for indulging himself in melancholy with her, lying in her lap, whinging at her like a milksop. That couldn't be what she wanted him for, if indeed she wanted him for anything, now the latest apocalypse was averted.
He ought to fuck her. That would be what she wanted, more of that. Long and hard and no danger of being put up the spout. That was what he had for her, that she could get nowhere else.
She could take a deal of that, the tough old slayer.
She glanced up at him. "What are you frowning about?"
He crowded her back against the bricks, pinned her with his body.
Surprised, Buffy gasped, but didn't resist. He carved a kiss into her mouth, deep and probing; she opened, straining up into it, her hands curling around his shoulders.
It was just after four in the morning, the air wintry but not bitter, this part of London as quiet as it ever got. They were in a side street, standing against the blind brick side of an old house. Not out of sight were anyone across the way to rise and look out a window, but he didn't think she cared for that. Her breathing was rapid, she'd gone warm and radiant in his arms, and he thought of hitching up her hem and going into her, jogging her up against the cold bricks, buried to the cods in her wet hot delicious cunny. Drive her, satisfy her and make her forget what a weak sister he'd been a little while hence.
When he broke the kiss, she was panting, wriggling against him. "Right here?"
Without consideration, he found he'd dropped into game-face. Her aroma filled his sensorium, stronger than before, even as he could also grasp the olfactory landscape for hundreds of yards all around them, people, animals, trash set out for collection. At sight of him, Buffy gasped again. Her hand was worming in between them, working at his buttons. He let out a low liquid snarl when her fingers made contact with his prick, and she let out a sigh that told him he'd done right. This was what she wanted, to be put up against the bricks by a monster. Her pulse racketed, she danced a little from foot to foot until he took hold of her, hoisted her up, and then she grappled him with her legs, grunting.
"Eager little cunt," Spike breathed. "You like this, do you?"
She nodded wildly, her head bobbling against the wall. He buried his mouth in her neck, let his desire loose, snapping into her hard. He didn't really mean to break her skin, but when it happened, and Buffy let loose a muffled cry against his shoulder, he bore down harder.
Her blood had the rich powerful flavor of present death. He hadn't tasted any such in over a lifetime, it filled him with an overheated rush, a thrill of rage and lust followed by an immediate kick of hard regret, like a sudden blow to the back of the skull. He eased off. Buffy clung to his shoulders as if she was being saved from drowning, her legs wrapped tight around his flanks. He couldn't tell if the sounds she made were cries of pain or woe or pleasure, but she never stopped flexing around him, her cunny supple and tight as a fist. Her blood still flowed into his mouth, though he'd stopped sucking on the wound, his fangs loosening their grip on the torn flesh.
Buffy came then, bringing herself off by her own frantic exertions on him. For a moment she was still, entirely dependent on him as he held her against the wall, her head moving slowly like she'd awakened to find herself hanging here, impaled. He drew back. She met his eyes with a fluttery smile. "I didn't know" she murmured, sounding drunk, pole-axed. "You never did this before" She hitched herself up on his shoulders, tasted his blood-wet mouth. Her cunt rippled around him, twitching, coaxing. He could feel her smile even as his mouth engulfed hers.
The idea came to him, from the depths of the internal hell that his demon dwelt in, that he could have it at last. The prize he'd long since given up on, stopped wanting, here it was, dangling unresistant against his lips. He could take Buffy Summers all the way. He could harvest her life. He could make her like him, make her his.
He couldn't believe how easy she was, about what he'd just done. It made him angry, made him want to shake her, for letting her guard down so far. Almost as angry as he was with himself, for losing his own.
She began to come again, wriggling, coaxing. "Fuck me, Spike. Get yourself off. Big bad Spike"
He spilled then, his climax barely noticeable after the intensity of her blood. He wanted to get away from her, but even when she had her feet on the ground again, when he'd pulled free and stuffed himself back into his jeans, Buffy was still holding onto his shoulders. He couldn't look at her now, though he sensed she was trying to make him engage with her eyeswhich wasn't like her, really.
"Spike," she whispered. She was on tiptoe, in his face. He had to force his bumpies down. The fresh blood, blood of a slayer, lit him up with wild urges. You needy pillock, he thought. Just put yourself worse off than you were before.
He forced himself to look at her. In the streetlight glow, her face was half orange, half shadow.
She said, "I didn't know that was going to happen."
No anger in her voice.
"I ... I liked it. It was good. Did itdid you?"
Part of him wanted to prostrate himself, beg her forgiveness. Part of him wanted to punch her in the face, punch her and punch her until she whipped the stake out of her coat pocket and drove it into him.
He crashed his fist into the brick. The pain cracked high and red, a firework going off in the midst of the harsh high of her blood. Buffy grabbed for his wrist as he pulled back to do it again.
"No!"
He went for her with the other hand; could feel how her throat would flex when he crushed her windpipe. But she caught that too, and for a moment they were locked in a motionless struggle. Her eyes were enormous, taking him in. "Oh Spike. What's happening here? What is this?"
Why wasn't she angry and imperious, why wasn't she punishing him? Her voice didn't even rise above a whisper, nothing to disturb the sleepers in the rooms above.
"Come on," she said, suddenly tugging on his hand. "We can't stay here. Come on." She broke into a run, and he had no choice but to run after her, his hand in her grip.
It was only when they rounded the corner in front of her hotel, that he understood what she'd done. Run him for an hour like a dog, so he'd be half-tame again now the wintry dawn was breaking behind the grey clouds. As they mounted the steps towards the shining gold and glass doors, she slipped an arm around his ribs, so they looked to the uniformed doorman like a giddy pair of lovers, rushing in to bed.
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