herself_nyc (herself_nyc) wrote in herself_nyc_fic, @ 2008-02-17 10:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | distance: redacted part |
Fic: DISTANCE (pt 60 of ?) - redacted
This section of the fic has been redacted. I've left it here as an out-take.
Previously
"So if I hadn't been so stupid. If I'd told you sooner"
"Pet, don't dwell on it. We can talk about the past all you like, I like it too. But don't fret over the hard things, yeah? Makes me sad to see you fret."
"But when I fret I cry, and when I cry, your cock gets enormous."
"You've noticed that."
The mere mention of it made Spike's flesh start to press against her thigh. She put her good hand down and caressed it. "God I love your thing."
"Do you?"
"I'll tell you a secret." She put her lips against his ear. "I always have."
"That's not much of a secret." Spike reached for the wine, refilled her glass. "Drink up. Like you when you're tellin' secrets. Want to hear some more."
He brought the glass to her lips, tipping it gradually as she swallowed.
Suddenly Spike was aware, like a light springing out darkness, of himself. Himself between the transports of sex and violence, of sleep and cigarettes and mouthfuls of hot thick blood, the things that carried him, transferred as if by bucket brigade, from the first re-entrance to this world to right now. The moment, the awareness, loomed open as Buffy, giggling, swallowed more wine, and in it he saw them both, their bodies tangled in a sexed-out sprawl, in intimate colloquy.
He was doing it. He was Spike-like, he was being Spike, he was bringing her along, bringing them both. Even the fight, that he had not wanted, even the hurting herhe heard the snap of her bone, it reverberated in his mind, more and more as he thought about ithad somehow turned out to be the right as opposed to the wrong kind, in her mind, in everyone's mind, apparently. Justified, comprehensible. She didn't spot him as being out of character. He'd been Spike. Spike broke her wrist, Spike confessed afterwards to his own beastliness and mystery, and now Spike was being rewarded with kisses and adoration and a glimpse of Buffy's rare lightness, with the heated press of her lovely body against his, all flushed with her gladness that he was with her, that she'd somehow awakened out of her real life into her best romantic dream.
It was his dream too. It felt like a dream. He loved her so much, she was as delicious as ever, more, more alluring, more of a darling. Yet at the same time he saw himself loving her, and the doubling echoed in the hollow space inside him.
To stay grounded, he needed constant arousal, constant physical stimuli, but every arousal brought with it the sensation of splitting, of tumult in his mind between ... he didn't even know what. Not just demon and soul, he could laugh at the stupid simplicity of that dichotomy. That was Angel's story, but Angel had always been a bit of a simpleton. Not like split personalities either, that silly telly movie Sybil, some bird with a whole cast of characters parotting inside her.
Not like that at all. Just ... a lot going on. A lot going on in one huge echoing hollow place, all at the same time. That place being his mind.
Buffy didn't understand what had come back to her wearing his face.
He didn't understand it either. One minute he was himself, right down deep in the selfness, in the moment, Spike and no-one else. And then he was other, except that otherit wasn't the demon, not precisely, not merely, not onlywas himself too.
He'd tried to tell her about it, to be honest and open. But she still didn't know.
It wasn't knowable.
Everything was so much simpler before. When he couldn't remember his own past, but he knew that he loved this powerful girl, that everything was all right when he fucked her and slept with her and told her poetry. He knew hundreds of poems, it didn't even seem odd that his brain teemed with them, memorized, lined up, ready for use. They didn't always mean all they could, without the context of their learning, but still they were rich.
Things were simpler back before he burned, too. Then he knew precisely what he was, the measure of himself: a bad rude man. Later a bad rude man with a soul. Before and after, he loved the girl, and loving the girl defined him like a chalk line around his form, the form of his existence.
Now he had everything back again, the memories foul and great, the soul, the poetry, and the girl. The girl the girl the girl. Her heat to keep him from exploding. Except she was the most powerful goad to him there was.
Buffy's giggle opened into a laugh, the wine overflowing her mouth.
She had no idea what was going on inside him. He could push it away again. Licked the wine off her chin and chest; spilled a little more on her breasts and licked that too, flicking the upturned nipples with his tongue, which made her laugh more.
"You want me to be stoned."
"Want you to stay stoned."
"I am not" She flicked some wine in his face.
"Oi!"
"No no nolet's not waste it." She chugged down the last couple of mouthfuls. "I haven't had a happy drunk in I don't know when. Kiss me."
He kissed her, and looked at her. "You have lots of unhappy drunks, do you? You turned into Buffy Summers, Girl Lush since I left you?"
"Not a lush. I've learned to like wine. Sometimes I like a lot of wine. When I need to relax."
"An' didn't you look about for some other fellow to relax you? Seein' as by your lights I wasn't coming back?"
"I thought maybe I should," she said, going solemn, "but it was too soon. Way too soon. And it's easy ... easier ... to keep to myself. To live in my head." She blinked, staring into his eyes. "I still can't believe you're back. That you came back and you love me and we might be okay."
She hid her face against his neck, and he felt her breathing like she thought they were about to be torn apart. But her good hand crept down between them, taking hold of his half-erect cock, playing with it until it was hard. He wrapped his hand around hers. Her little thumb caressed his slit, back and forth, back and forth, until he couldn't resist the urge to squirm. He swallowed a groan.
"So pretty," Buffy murmured.
"So there's been no one this year. But what about the Immortal? You didn't wrap your pretty hand 'round his prong? In Rome?"
She started. "How do you know about that?"
"So you did!"
"No. No, that's not me. We have decoy Buffys. At that time we had one of them partying in Rome. To give the impression that I'm not so much on the job anymore. How do you know?"
"Angel used to have youwell, herfollowed. Big Poof thought he was so smart, but didn't even know he was followin' the wrong girl. We spotted youherin a nightclub in Rome when we went there for a couple of days on a wild chase after a severed headdon't askan' you were disportin' yourself with the Immortal, so"
"Never met the guy." Her hand went still on his prick. "Angel had spies on me?"
"Just because he was a hero doesn't mean he wasn't also a pillock."
"Oh God. Angel. Did you two quarrel over me?"
"Not so's you notice."
"Huh."
"Still think of him, I suppose."
"I thought of him a lot this year, since finding out he was really dead. He really is, isn't he?"
"Yeah." Spike didn't like talking about Angel when Buffy's hand was wrapped around his cock.
Though maybe that was the best way to talk about Angel. "He was sure you loved him an' never cared for me."
"Well, he was wrong. I did love him, he was right about that. But he didn't know that I lovedloveyou. I wish he had. I wasn't brave enough to tell him, and for that I'm deeply sorry. There, maybe that's another secret."
"So you were still in love with Angel."
"No. I loved him. In a very past-tense-will-remain-past-tense way. Spike, don't be insecure about Angel. Don't be insecure about anything."
"I won't if you won't."
"It was a long time ago now, but I still wonder why you didn't let me know you weren't dead."
"At first I couldn't. An' then Angel convinced me I shouldn'tthat we both had a job to do that wasn't about dallyin' with you, that we'd both moved on. Maybe deep down he thought he was wrong, an' if you saw me, you'd choose me, an' he'd be nowhere. 'Spect he treasured up that bit of hope, that someday he'd get back to you. Though lest you think he was the saint of self-abnegation there at the end, he was dippin' his wick into pretty little werewolf girl he'd met on a case."
"Where was your wick then?"
"Only in my hand."
"So you let Angel talk you out of calling me? That doesn't quite sound like you. Usually when he says go left, you go right. Isn't that so?"
"You know ... you know I didn't believe you, there at the end. Didn't think what you said to me, when you said it ... was quite enough to go on, to show up again in your life. Just don't want you feelin' regrets about that now, because it was what it was."
"I hate that I didn't claim you sooner."
"Got me now." It felt true. He told himself it was true, he was here, he was hers, all this wow and flutter going on in his head, all the changes that were in therethat made him have these off-key self-conscious thoughts in the first placedidn't matter. He just had to be careful. To keep moving. That would hold him right. On the rails.
"Oh, I've got you. I've got you, my Spike." She picked up the teasing of his cock, hard tight squeezes that made him grunt and swivel. Lifting her legshe was loose as taffyhe pushed into her, her cunt still wet, swollen and pillowy. She wriggled to accomodate him, until they were screwed together tight, her leg riding high over his hip, then began a pressure inside, flexing and releasing, her whole body dipping into every inner thrust. The sensation made him crazy inside, everything red and gold, an inferno in his head, another backed up in his balls, in his flaring cock. She laughed, he didn't know what at, maybe at his expression, the noises she was wringing out of him. She laughed and nipped at his mouth, and made him lose himself in long deep shudders.
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