Fic: Persephone - Chapter 4
Rating: Vampire slayage, some language, explicit sex THIS CHAPTER
Timeline: Season 2
A/N: Thanks to the incomparable beanbeans for betaing and for co-writing the rough draft of this chapter so many moons ago. All remaining errors are mine.
This is a crack!fic whence the whole point is for virginal season 2 Buffy to get it on with ebol, unchipped season 2 Spike. Onward to that special hell.
Prev parts here
Persephone - Chapter 4
Persephone spun and dipped, her handmaidens moving with her in perfect time. This was her favorite meadow. She felt more powerful here, more complete, than she did anywhere else. The sun was warm on her face, every breath perfumed by the flowers and herbs beneath their feet, and there was a beautiful, half-naked man standing-she stumbled and crashed into Tia, who cried out.
The nymph followed Persephone’s look. “Holy Hera,” Tia murmured, after a moment of stunned silence.
Persephone would ask herself, in the days that followed, why she hadn’t fled as if the Lord of the Underworld were after her. For one thing, she hadn’t known that the Lord of the Underworld was after her. For another, no one ever interfered with her mamma, (first time for everything, it would seem). And, well, he hadn’t seemed scary.
Piqued at the intrusion and full of her own power, she let go of Tia and stepped toward the silent, staring figure. “Who are you?” she demanded.
He shivered when she spoke, sleek muscles tightening and shifting. He looked a little disoriented; she moved closer and felt a pang of concern when she saw that he had a number of scrapes. “Are you injured?”
His lips parted, but he said nothing. Her first, thoughtless impression had been that he was beautiful; closer and more careful examination did nothing to change it.
And there was a great deal to examine. He was dressed in the manner of a field worker, nude except for a length of fine, dark cloth bound low around his hips. He was as pale and shining as the moon-except for his eyes. The blue was really quite striking against all that creamy white, sapphires strewn across raw silk. Her mouth quirking at her poetic flight of fancy, she stepped closer. There was a deep cut over one eye. Without thinking, she reached up to heal it. He shivered again at her touch, harder, and closed his eyes, a thick curve of lashes brushing his cheeks.
With his eyes concealed, she could see that his brows and lashes were gray, and that the plump curve of his lower lip shaded to the palest pink. She had a sudden, shocking desire to run a fingertip across it. She frowned and brushed the warmth of her fingers over the scrape on his chin instead. He was so strange; Olympians generally adored color and ostentation. She supposed he was not unlike Zeus, who was painted in shades of thunderhead, the palest grays and a few ominous blues, and his brother Poseidon-Zeus’s brother… Her breath rushed out of her, a sudden horrible suspicion freezing her in place.
“Hades,” she whispered, her fingertips still touching his face.
His eyes opened, their beguiling color now frightening, a blue to drown in. At the sound of his name, she saw his expression change, bemusement sharpening to intent. She tensed to flee, but it was far too late. A pale arm snaked around her waist…
…yanking her forward against an unyielding body. The impact woke Buffy from the strange daydream into a nightmare. The warm meadow with its shining archangel was gone, in its place a cold, shadowy hell. She blinked up into Spike’s face, wriggling against the arm that held her pinned against him. His words surfaced from a tangle of images and memories.
“No. I don’t-” She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself. When she went on, her voice was small. “I decided I’m not going to let it be that way.” Then stronger, “You can’t make me fight you.”
“No?” A quick shake of his head and he was in game face. “Perhaps a demonstration then. Does the prophecy say you need all your little bits and bobs?”
Buffy’s eyes dropped to the row of fang tips showing behind his parted lips. Images flashed in her mind; it wasn’t always the victim’s throats that were torn. Her breath came faster. Spike’s fingers closed on her nipple, spurring on the rage that was boiling up in her, rage gathered up from every victim she’d been too late for, every bit of her innocence that had been stripped away. One of these monsters would get the best of her someday-maybe-but not this one, not tonight.
Her voice was so low and intense that she almost didn’t recognize it. “If you try anything like that, hurt me at all, you’ll be missing some of your ‘bits and bobs’ before we’re done. I will tear you apart; I swear it.”
She stared unblinking into his yellow eyes, quivering with an intensity of emotion, a power that she’d never felt before. He stared back, his expression unreadable. He was still for long enough that some of her rage began to turn to confusion, but she stayed at the ready, waiting for him to rip into her, starting a fight neither of them would win.
He grinned suddenly; it was not a comforting expression. Buffy braced for battle even as despair coiled inside her at what she had gambled and lost.
Instead, he shook his head, ending the confrontation, and then he tipped his head back and shook off the demon.
“Fair enough,” he said.
She was abruptly aware of her breathing, the leap of her heart. His hand shifted against her breast; she’d actually forgotten it was there. Her fingers curled into hard little fists against his chest.
He smirked and gave her a little squeeze. “If I can’t make you fight, let’s see what I can make you do then, shall we?”
***
With a quick, powerful movement, she was hefted up until her breasts were level with his face. Buffy didn’t have time to be relieved that his hand was gone before it was sliding back up, pushing away her top at the same time. The crypt was cold in spite of the hellish color scheme, but Buffy shivered more from being exposed than from the temperature. She looked away as if that would keep him from seeing.
“Don’t even think about it, Spike.”
He looked at the nipple quivering so close to his mouth, and then up at her face, all mischief. “Want to get down to business, Slayer? All you have to do is ask.”
Buffy’s mouth pinched shut.
He opened his mouth on her breast and licked, a big, irreverent swirl of his tongue on the milky underside, and up over her nipple.
Mmm, Slayer might be his new favorite flavor. Well, she couldn’t be his favorite flavor, exactly, because… oh, fuck it, she was delectable. He took another broad stroke with his tongue, this time the crease underneath, dark and sweet, brine and heat... Above him, Buffy choked and sputtered.
He smiled against her skin, eyes closed, nostrils flared. “Four little words, Slayer.”
“You are so dead.”
“’S a fact.”
He began brushing his open mouth back and forth across her nipple; it was hard from the cold and damp from his attentions. He let her stew for a bit, her nipple in his mouth and yet not, still only touching with his lips.
He pulled back a little. “I’m waiting,” he said, letting his lips just close on her as he spoke. She clenched her hands in his hair, the pressure just short of painful. But, she didn’t pull him away. In punishment, he closed his mouth over as much of her breast as he could, pulling hard with his tongue, laving and suckling.
It was like being plunged into icy water, shocking, intense and inescapable. Buffy gasped, her hands flailing at his hair, his neck, his shoulders. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, he stopped, releasing her nipple with a small, wet sound. She panted, breathing in the reprieve, there had to be something that would make him stop.
Harm. Grievous. Bodily. Harm. But she couldn’t, not until the ritual was over. Her fingers closed hard on his shoulders, hard enough to make the leather protest.
He turned his head to her other breast. Cool breath ghosted across her over-sensitive skin; his head tipped a little and his lips-
Buffy grabbed big fistfuls of leather and pulled, feeling and hearing seams give under her strength.
Like her taunt about thinking of Angel, the response exceeded her wildest expectations. He cried out like a drama geek stabbed with prop knives and dropped her like she was sweating holy water.
Buffy fell back against the sarcophagus. She grimaced as she tugged her top down; the rub of the fabric over her breasts was almost painful and made her insides clench uncomfortably. Hugging an arm to her stomach, she watched with great satisfaction as Spike staggered back and fingered a sleeve gaping away from the shoulder. Oh my God, was he going to cry? She opened her mouth to dig at him when he looked up.
There was murder in that pale gaze. Buffy’s mouth snapped shut; she straightened like she’d been pulled with a string.
“You’re going to pay for that, Slayer.”
His growl sent a shiver down her spine, even as she scoffed, “Talk ‘B movie’ some more, bad boy. It makes me feel all girly.” The breathless quality of her voice kicked up her anger another notch.
He doffed the damaged coat with quick, violent movements. His irises were looking distinctly vampish. “Irreplaceable, it is-unlike you.” The coat hit the floor with a slap. Then his shirt, which he threw to the ground, leaving him wearing only a black tee that showed every curve of muscle in his arms and shoulders. The pale, beautiful man from her daydream appeared in her mind’s eye. Those arms had looked great on Meadow Guy; Buffy decided they just made Spike look like a felon.
“The petite sizes go fast in that style, but I could take a look.” Her voice was as salesgirl as she could make it. “That would be from the Poser line?”
Spike hesitated, and then gave a snort of laughter. “Shopping for me? That’s sweet. I feel married already, and I haven’t yet fucked the bride.” His tone was amused, but she could hear a thread of anger running through it. He closed the distance between them with a few lightning steps, slid his hands under her arms, and tossed her onto the stone surface.
With a single step, he vaulted after her, landing upright.
Buffy’s feet tangled as she kicked back from him and she lost a sneaker. He stepped forward swiftly, punting it away with one booted foot. Buffy looked over just long enough to see the shoe punch a dark hole in the curtain of smoke; the candles flared in protest. She looked back to where he stood over her. His skin and hair seemed to glow in the red light, his clothes a deep, velvet black against the formless, flickering background.
All her training screamed at her to sweep his feet out from under him and roll away. And he knew it too. He just stood there, his shoulders back and his arms a little apart; he triple-dog dared her to do it. Which… was pretty much the only reason she was able to resist.
After a tense moment, his body language relaxed subtly. Maybe something about her lying prone at his feet, Buffy thought, as she glared up at him. His hands moved to his waist, and she saw the hated buckle glint between his fingers as he began to work the leather free.
Buffy swallowed hard; for the first time her eyes strayed below his belt. Oh God. She looked away immediately, but the image of his erection running down the left leg of his jeans was branded onto her retinas. Maybe Xander was right, she thought wildly, maybe seeing guy parts did make you go blind. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The sound of his low laughter did though, the bastard.
“Not so petite, eh Slayer? Don’t you worry, I’ll fit every inch into your-” She planted her feet against his and shoved them out from under him.
His hands slapped on the stone to either side of her. Still laughing, he hovered there above her for a moment. Buffy stared him down. She wanted so badly to knee him in the crotch and run. He sat back, pinning her legs at the knee; his long fingers reached for the waistband of her sweats.
Looking him right in the eye, she lifted her hips to help; she wanted this over with. His smirk got a little wider.
“Can’t make you fight, but I’ll bet I can make you scream.”
“Kiss my bikini-ready ass, Spike.”
“Appreciate the tip, love.”
Spike curled his fingers under the hem of her sweats and began to strip the stained, shapeless material down…
… revealing sleek curves, immaculate golden skin; she lit up the room like a thousand candles. The dark coverlet dropped forgotten to the floor as he stared at the Goddess in his bed. Her beauty had the same effect on him that it always did, but it was her tremulous smile of welcome, her regard, that struck him like a blow to the gut-his second shock of the evening. It was just like the Fates that she would finally come to him on the very night that he learned he must release her, discovered it in a way that had left him shaking. If he kept his silence, betrayed the fragile thing growing between them, he could have this one night. This night, when he was in desperate need of her warmth.
Why was he going so slow? There was another chance to kick him away when he shifted aside to pull her sweats the rest of the way off. She lay there, shivering a little, fighting herself to let it pass. Cool fingers banded her ankle and her remaining sneaker was tugged from her foot. She felt a hand touch her thigh and then her hip, almost tentative. She frowned, but then he was over her again, one rough, denim-covered thigh thrust proprietarily between hers.
She heard a low ripple of sound and knuckles brushed against her belly. Eyes wide, she looked at his face, saw his pupils dilate as he shimmied his hips. There was a rustle of fabric and a tiny clink as he shoved his jeans down, no hint of his earlier mischief in his expression. If anything, he looked driven.
She pushed away fear. It wasn’t sex, just something nasty but necessary, like those embarrassing medical exams you get when you’re old. At least he had quit playing around so she could get it over with and get on with her life.
Things to do before I die: twist off Spike’s tacky blond head.
He shifted, bringing his other leg between hers, pushing her thighs farther apart with a twist of his hips. He reached down there with his hand and she braced herself. She clenched her teeth when something weird and smooth bobbed and brushed against her inner thigh. Something hard prodded at the top of her cleft and then lower down over her opening, making her insides clench.
Over soon, over soon, she chanted inwardly as she stared up at him, his eyes gleaming slits in his sharp face.
He brought his hand back up. Now he was braced above her on both arms, but she could still feel him touching her between her legs. He moved his hips a little. Now. It was going to happen now. Buffy pulled in a deep breath and tightened her grip on the stone. That’s when he spoke.
“Wh-What?” Buffy’s mouth dropped open. She was close enough that she could see the candle flames reflected in his eyes, tiny points of light. His eyes narrowed, and she saw his gaze drop to her mouth.
“Beg me, Slayer,” he said again, watching her parted lips. Then, almost under his breath, “Ask me.”
Ask me.
Instantly Buffy remembered another time, another place, a man who had taken so much from her that, in the end, he would have nothing that was not offered freely. He had opened his hands that night, releasing her, not knowing she had already given him her heart. Show me. Her halting words, and when her voice failed, her hands guiding his, had turned her first experience with love into one of the most erotic, most shakingly intimate…
Buffy was still staring up at where Spike had been when he butted his head between her legs and licked her there.
For a moment, she couldn’t remember how to make her body work. Then his cool tongue pushed wetly between her nether lips, lapped over her clit. The electric sensation jackknifed her into motion, even as it made her shudder with remembered ecstasy. She clapped her hands onto his shoulders and yanked him up. With a powerful twist of her body, she was on top. Panting, she braced a hand on his chest, and reached down between their bodies-and realized what she would have to touch to get the job done.
He smiled up at her then, a wolf’s grin with lots of tongue and teeth.
She should have gone for it. Just grabbed his-his thing and, you know. Instead, she was thinking what else she could do to his coat when he flipped her onto her back again.
Teeth closed on her belly, and then right above her pubic bone, not painfully. The surprise of the caress as much as the jolts of sensation made her cry out and arch against his mouth. He nuzzled in between her legs. Her fingers flew to his head to push him away just as he found her clit with his lips and sucked hard. She shrieked, clenching her fingers hard against his scalp. He growled in response, burrowing deeper, licking and biting with exquisite care.
He had been faithful to Dru for over a hundred years, thumbed his nose at Angelus, shown himself to be above the common run. He’d never known a human woman this way. Her living blood pounded so close to the surface here, rushing to his call; her succulent flesh plumped under his tongue as he lapped and tasted. Her thighs clamped on his head, but they only held him closer, so fragrant, so sweet that he was dizzy with it.
He felt a flash of something almost like fear. He shook it off, and bent his head back to her little indulgence of a cunny, slipping the folds between his lips. He had to do this, no reason not to enjoy it. Out of an eternity, it was only this one night…
This one night was all he would have of her.
A stab of despair stilled him for a moment, and then his hands moved under her hips with renewed purpose, lifting her against his mouth. He could feel the incredible tension in her, knew he was riding her to the edge of her control. If he tipped her over it now, she could end him in an instant. He shuddered, his cock straining towards her, brushing wetly against his belly. He slipped his tongue into her, knowing it might be the last thing he ever did.
He wasn’t entirely sure he could live without her now anyway.
He pushed into her heat, feeling her snug even around his tongue. For a moment he was balanced on the lightning edge between heaven and hell, and then he heard her sob, and felt her go loose in his hands.
He felt a surge of triumph; for this one night, she was his.
Her thighs draped over his shoulders now. He settled himself lower, worked his tongue deeper, imagining every velvety ridge rubbing over his cock. He slid a hand over the curve of her hip until his fingers tangled in the warm, soft hair on her mons, squeezed and tugged at the intriguing little pad of flesh.
He stroked and tasted until she began to move against him, tiny involuntary movements of her hips, and then he laved a slick path up to her neglected clit. He couldn’t not be in her now; a finger took the place of his tongue. Holy Christ she was tight, this was going to be-he sucked hard, pulling the hood of her clit into his mouth as he worked another finger in. She made a strangled sound and bucked against his mouth. His cock bobbed hard against his abs in response, his balls tightening ominously, and he was forced to pull away, pressing his forehead against her thigh for a few breaths as he got himself under control.
And then he was at her again, as rough as he dared, pushing his tongue hard against her swollen clit again and again, let her feel the edge of his teeth on her outer lips and inner thighs. His fingers found that place inside and he pushed up hard. He felt her clit pulse under his tongue, knew she was close. He could make her come for him, make her scream like he promised. And he would, but not ’til he had his cock in her to the hilt.
He crawled up her body and looked into her face; her eyes were glassy and little unfocused, her breath hitching in and out. Not unlike someone on the brink of death, except that she was beautifully flushed along the upper curves of her breasts and over her round girly cheeks. He could feel the heat of it, wanted to taste it, but first… He moved his hips and his cock slipped easily between her legs and into his waiting hand. He wedged the head in her tight little entrance, felt her heat lick over the sensitive flesh, bringing it suddenly, intensely alive.
Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Good girl. Never looking away from her face, he brought his slick hand up. It shook a little until he palmed her breast, rubbing the wet fingers over her nipple. "Gonna fuck you now Slayer,” he breathed.
His blatant statement of intent was too much. Her iron control slipped and she started to struggle. "NO!" She arched against him, causing his cock to slip free. Her hands flew to his shoulders, pushing.
This was what he’d wanted, ages ago it seemed now. Now all he could think about was getting into her. He came down on her with all his weight, but she could kick him across the room if she wanted to.
"Shhh," he breathed against her ear. He worked a hand between their hips, stroking his fingers over her slick, swollen flesh. "Easy, Slayer. You can do this.” He struggled to find the words. “Just... let me. Let it happen."
Buffy felt pinned, surrounded. His body covered hers, his voice in her ear and the fingers rubbing over her clit wouldn't let her think, catch her breath. She panted, caught between the stone and what she knew must happen.
His hand moved away, and she whimpered. She needed that, needed the way she couldn’t think when he was touching her. And then he was again, touching her, lower, pressing in just like his tongue. She relaxed a little, something familiar.
The pressure grew and her eyes flew open as she realized it was not his fingers. “That's it, Slayer," he crooned in her ear.
"Oh God," she sobbed.
With a grunt of pleasure, he arched his body. There was a moment of resistance and then he was sliding his thick sex deep into her untried body.
He lay over her, gasping. The fit of her was so perfect, the intoxicating heat, that lovely place deep inside that gripped his knob like a fist. He had a moment to savor it before she came to life beneath him, bucking and squirming. He rode it out, gentling her with his weight and with nonsense words.
Too tight, too hard, too much. She burned and ached; every movement only made it worse. She wanted to throw him off, but he was everywhere and she felt weak. Does it make you weak? She could hear him murmuring.
"Shhh," he tested her with little movements of his hips as she stilled again, panting. "It's all right. Worst is over now, yeah?" And then he was kissing along her jaw. Her world went dark as he slanted his head over hers. And then he had it, that last thing. His lips closed over hers softly and she felt the flick of his tongue behind her teeth.
And then she was kissing him back, her hands in his hair. Desperate, searching kisses. What she needed, she needed from him. She hated, wanted, hurt. Her hips started to wriggle against his. “Please.” She shifted again, the tiniest movement that made her insides grip him, vise-like. He groaned, and bit his way back to her ear.
"Please what, Slayer? Please this?" He took an experimental thrust, a long push-pull of his cock that made her moan. The sound bolted through him, tightening his body.
He began to move his hips faster, harder with each stroke, until she felt him nudging her clit on every in thrust, sending little shocks through her. She angled her hips, pushing against him, wanting more, and gasped when he drove in hard in response, nudging her someplace deep inside. She moved blindly with him, rapt. She knew her body burned and ached, but she couldn't really distinguish where anymore.
"Right there, Slayer," he said in her ear, and nudged her again. "That's where I'm going to come. Deep inside your tight, little, virgin cunny." He gasped and arched deep.
And then he was talking again, just barely breathing the words. "Want to taste it Slayer, my come on you. Do you think you bled when you broke for me? Want to taste that, too. Your come, your Slayer blood. Fuck."
She felt a lightening flash of panic at his words. Perhaps he sensed it, his hips slowed. He stopped pumping into her deeply and instead started slow circles with his hips. The motion muddled her thoughts; the sensation was dizzying, as if her whole body was spinning
She closed her eyes, tried to center herself, but she couldn't-too many sensations all at once: that strange, sleek penetration that rubbed and prodded, his hand hard on her nape, his fingers shaping the curve her breast, plucking at her nipple, his mouth, teasing her lips and panting out those low, growled promises.
He shifted his legs, and his next stroke slammed into her clit and that spot deep inside. She cried out, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the stone.
She heard him laugh, breathy, triumphant, and then he did it again, making her convulse beneath him. He groped for one of her flailing hands and brought it up, pinned it to the stone next to her head. Bracing himself, he found her other hand and pinned it too. Buffy keened, wrapping her legs around his hips as he slammed into her. She saw his face twist with pleasure. He looked vicious, but she wasn’t afraid.
Buffy strained against his grip, but not to escape. Every maddening snap of his hips only made her clit feel tighter; the weight of him inside only made the deep ache more intense. Her fingers closed on his hands with desperate force. "Do it, Slayer. Scream for me," he growled.
Angry, she shoved her hips against him. The move seemed to lock him inside and he arched against her hard, bucking and gasping.
The tension was suddenly unbearable, as if someone had yanked a belt tight between her legs. Then he bucked his hips against her just… there and it snapped.
She did scream; he was moving on her, shoving shock waves through her body. The pleasure had a jagged, almost unbearable edge. He arched up on his arms with a snarl, the leap of his sex inside her pushing her up over another smaller peak.
The sensations ebbed almost as fast as they struck, leaving her pulling in deep, ragged breaths.
She drifted for awhile, darkly content, his weight a vague surrounding presence, slowly becoming aware of the soreness and the still pleasurable throb between her legs. There was a pebble or something under one of her shoulder blades, or maybe it was a button. After a long time, the weight on her stirred to life. Her brows twitched in a frown, but he moved down rather than away, nosing into her as he went.
Occasionally she felt something cool and wet: his tongue.
She felt the nudge of his nose against her pubic bone, and then the touch of his lips. His tongue slid over her; she must be a mess. She heard him growl and remembered the blood, why she shouldn't let him do this, but she couldn’t seem to care.
***
Still shuddering from a final tugging caress of his mouth, she opened her eyes and there he was above her, heavy-lidded, hair mussed. His lips were shiny and parted slightly. She could see just a hint of his teeth. An image blossomed in her mind of testing the hard edge with the pad of her thumb.
Feeling her first hint of unease, she looked away from his mouth. His expression was relaxed, in a way that she'd never seen in a vampire before, or in a man for that matter. His muscles were loose and melty, his body resting heavily on hers as his lazy gaze roved over her. His penis was still thick and heavy and slick between her upper thighs; she shuddered at the memory of how it felt inside her body. His gaze landed on a point just south of her right earlobe, fixed itself, as he began a slow slide with his hips. He shifted and then he was pushing into her again. Her vision went blurry and she whimpered. She was sore, even as slick as she was, but the pressure was irresistible.
He buried his face against her neck as he began to move, each stroke like he was striking a bell inside her, sending a pulse of pleasure from deep in her belly. He growled low in his throat; by the time she parsed out the burning in her neck from the one between her legs she wasn’t really sure how long he’d been feeding. For an endless moment she clutched him closer, caught transfixed between pain-pleasure of his suckling and the tension ratcheting up in her lower body. But the voice inside her grew stronger; the one that knew this had to stop.
Don’t make me kill you.
She didn’t know why she didn’t want to anymore, but she was sure of it, as certain as she was that she wanted to live. Before she could act, there was a hot, tugging sensation as he released her neck. His hips moved harder, faster, as he arched back. His tongue curled up, licking his lips, but it was her blood this time, not his own.
Her hands closed hard on his biceps. He was vamped out, but that wasn’t what transfixed her. His head was thrown back, exposing the line of his throat. The yellow eyes that saw too much were closed, his lips parted and soft like he was waiting for a kiss, waiting for the kiss. He looked incredibly vulnerable, yet relaxed, even exalted. She felt like she was seeing something real, something intimate, something rare. He was… beautiful. She cried out as she convulsed with pleasure, warm and liquid this time, washing over her entire body, lighting up nerves that were still humming. His image blurred, and for a long moment she could only feel.
***
The belt buckle was poking her thigh.
She noticed a number of other things too, almost at once, and none of them were comforting. The light in the room was yellow now, not red. When had the spell ended? Spike was lying over her in her and she-her arms clasped his shoulders and her bare legs were intertwined with his. The hard object under her shoulder blade leapt back into her awareness with a redoubled pang.
Buffy jerked into motion, just as she felt his shoulders tense under her hands. Shoving him away, she rolled athletically off the sarcophagus. The motion tugged painfully at the bite on her neck and called her attention to the slick tenderness between her legs. The yellow light was coming from the camp lantern, a beacon left at the crypt door by the ever-thoughtful and organized Willow. Emotion welled up in her, a sob catching in her throat. She spied her discarded sweats and lunged for them.
She knew she should keep an eye on him, knew he could attack at any time. She managed one look, taking in his hair, mussed by her own hands, the dark smear of her blood at the corner of his mouth, and he hadn’t moved at all, much less pulled up his pants; the streaks of blood there stood out clearly on his pale flesh. She looked away, yanking the sweats up over her legs, all her senses hyperaware, waiting for him to move or speak. She braved another glance and saw that he was still sprawled on his back. She felt a flash of irritation. Where did he get off acting all sacrificial?
Tugging her tank top down, she noticed his coat lying on the floor. Stepping over it, she snatched up her own damaged shirt and slipped it on. She hopped over the circle like a child stepping over a crack in the sidewalk. Heedless of her bare feet, she raced for the door. Grabbing up the lantern, she opened the door just enough to slip through and pulled it shut behind her with a satisfying boom.
Chapter 5
Timeline: Season 2
A/N: Thanks to the incomparable beanbeans for betaing and for co-writing the rough draft of this chapter so many moons ago. All remaining errors are mine.
This is a crack!fic whence the whole point is for virginal season 2 Buffy to get it on with ebol, unchipped season 2 Spike. Onward to that special hell.
Prev parts here
Persephone - Chapter 4
Persephone spun and dipped, her handmaidens moving with her in perfect time. This was her favorite meadow. She felt more powerful here, more complete, than she did anywhere else. The sun was warm on her face, every breath perfumed by the flowers and herbs beneath their feet, and there was a beautiful, half-naked man standing-she stumbled and crashed into Tia, who cried out.
The nymph followed Persephone’s look. “Holy Hera,” Tia murmured, after a moment of stunned silence.
Persephone would ask herself, in the days that followed, why she hadn’t fled as if the Lord of the Underworld were after her. For one thing, she hadn’t known that the Lord of the Underworld was after her. For another, no one ever interfered with her mamma, (first time for everything, it would seem). And, well, he hadn’t seemed scary.
Piqued at the intrusion and full of her own power, she let go of Tia and stepped toward the silent, staring figure. “Who are you?” she demanded.
He shivered when she spoke, sleek muscles tightening and shifting. He looked a little disoriented; she moved closer and felt a pang of concern when she saw that he had a number of scrapes. “Are you injured?”
His lips parted, but he said nothing. Her first, thoughtless impression had been that he was beautiful; closer and more careful examination did nothing to change it.
And there was a great deal to examine. He was dressed in the manner of a field worker, nude except for a length of fine, dark cloth bound low around his hips. He was as pale and shining as the moon-except for his eyes. The blue was really quite striking against all that creamy white, sapphires strewn across raw silk. Her mouth quirking at her poetic flight of fancy, she stepped closer. There was a deep cut over one eye. Without thinking, she reached up to heal it. He shivered again at her touch, harder, and closed his eyes, a thick curve of lashes brushing his cheeks.
With his eyes concealed, she could see that his brows and lashes were gray, and that the plump curve of his lower lip shaded to the palest pink. She had a sudden, shocking desire to run a fingertip across it. She frowned and brushed the warmth of her fingers over the scrape on his chin instead. He was so strange; Olympians generally adored color and ostentation. She supposed he was not unlike Zeus, who was painted in shades of thunderhead, the palest grays and a few ominous blues, and his brother Poseidon-Zeus’s brother… Her breath rushed out of her, a sudden horrible suspicion freezing her in place.
“Hades,” she whispered, her fingertips still touching his face.
His eyes opened, their beguiling color now frightening, a blue to drown in. At the sound of his name, she saw his expression change, bemusement sharpening to intent. She tensed to flee, but it was far too late. A pale arm snaked around her waist…
…yanking her forward against an unyielding body. The impact woke Buffy from the strange daydream into a nightmare. The warm meadow with its shining archangel was gone, in its place a cold, shadowy hell. She blinked up into Spike’s face, wriggling against the arm that held her pinned against him. His words surfaced from a tangle of images and memories.
“No. I don’t-” She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself. When she went on, her voice was small. “I decided I’m not going to let it be that way.” Then stronger, “You can’t make me fight you.”
“No?” A quick shake of his head and he was in game face. “Perhaps a demonstration then. Does the prophecy say you need all your little bits and bobs?”
Buffy’s eyes dropped to the row of fang tips showing behind his parted lips. Images flashed in her mind; it wasn’t always the victim’s throats that were torn. Her breath came faster. Spike’s fingers closed on her nipple, spurring on the rage that was boiling up in her, rage gathered up from every victim she’d been too late for, every bit of her innocence that had been stripped away. One of these monsters would get the best of her someday-maybe-but not this one, not tonight.
Her voice was so low and intense that she almost didn’t recognize it. “If you try anything like that, hurt me at all, you’ll be missing some of your ‘bits and bobs’ before we’re done. I will tear you apart; I swear it.”
She stared unblinking into his yellow eyes, quivering with an intensity of emotion, a power that she’d never felt before. He stared back, his expression unreadable. He was still for long enough that some of her rage began to turn to confusion, but she stayed at the ready, waiting for him to rip into her, starting a fight neither of them would win.
He grinned suddenly; it was not a comforting expression. Buffy braced for battle even as despair coiled inside her at what she had gambled and lost.
Instead, he shook his head, ending the confrontation, and then he tipped his head back and shook off the demon.
“Fair enough,” he said.
She was abruptly aware of her breathing, the leap of her heart. His hand shifted against her breast; she’d actually forgotten it was there. Her fingers curled into hard little fists against his chest.
He smirked and gave her a little squeeze. “If I can’t make you fight, let’s see what I can make you do then, shall we?”
***
With a quick, powerful movement, she was hefted up until her breasts were level with his face. Buffy didn’t have time to be relieved that his hand was gone before it was sliding back up, pushing away her top at the same time. The crypt was cold in spite of the hellish color scheme, but Buffy shivered more from being exposed than from the temperature. She looked away as if that would keep him from seeing.
“Don’t even think about it, Spike.”
He looked at the nipple quivering so close to his mouth, and then up at her face, all mischief. “Want to get down to business, Slayer? All you have to do is ask.”
Buffy’s mouth pinched shut.
He opened his mouth on her breast and licked, a big, irreverent swirl of his tongue on the milky underside, and up over her nipple.
Mmm, Slayer might be his new favorite flavor. Well, she couldn’t be his favorite flavor, exactly, because… oh, fuck it, she was delectable. He took another broad stroke with his tongue, this time the crease underneath, dark and sweet, brine and heat... Above him, Buffy choked and sputtered.
He smiled against her skin, eyes closed, nostrils flared. “Four little words, Slayer.”
“You are so dead.”
“’S a fact.”
He began brushing his open mouth back and forth across her nipple; it was hard from the cold and damp from his attentions. He let her stew for a bit, her nipple in his mouth and yet not, still only touching with his lips.
He pulled back a little. “I’m waiting,” he said, letting his lips just close on her as he spoke. She clenched her hands in his hair, the pressure just short of painful. But, she didn’t pull him away. In punishment, he closed his mouth over as much of her breast as he could, pulling hard with his tongue, laving and suckling.
It was like being plunged into icy water, shocking, intense and inescapable. Buffy gasped, her hands flailing at his hair, his neck, his shoulders. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, he stopped, releasing her nipple with a small, wet sound. She panted, breathing in the reprieve, there had to be something that would make him stop.
Harm. Grievous. Bodily. Harm. But she couldn’t, not until the ritual was over. Her fingers closed hard on his shoulders, hard enough to make the leather protest.
He turned his head to her other breast. Cool breath ghosted across her over-sensitive skin; his head tipped a little and his lips-
Buffy grabbed big fistfuls of leather and pulled, feeling and hearing seams give under her strength.
Like her taunt about thinking of Angel, the response exceeded her wildest expectations. He cried out like a drama geek stabbed with prop knives and dropped her like she was sweating holy water.
Buffy fell back against the sarcophagus. She grimaced as she tugged her top down; the rub of the fabric over her breasts was almost painful and made her insides clench uncomfortably. Hugging an arm to her stomach, she watched with great satisfaction as Spike staggered back and fingered a sleeve gaping away from the shoulder. Oh my God, was he going to cry? She opened her mouth to dig at him when he looked up.
There was murder in that pale gaze. Buffy’s mouth snapped shut; she straightened like she’d been pulled with a string.
“You’re going to pay for that, Slayer.”
His growl sent a shiver down her spine, even as she scoffed, “Talk ‘B movie’ some more, bad boy. It makes me feel all girly.” The breathless quality of her voice kicked up her anger another notch.
He doffed the damaged coat with quick, violent movements. His irises were looking distinctly vampish. “Irreplaceable, it is-unlike you.” The coat hit the floor with a slap. Then his shirt, which he threw to the ground, leaving him wearing only a black tee that showed every curve of muscle in his arms and shoulders. The pale, beautiful man from her daydream appeared in her mind’s eye. Those arms had looked great on Meadow Guy; Buffy decided they just made Spike look like a felon.
“The petite sizes go fast in that style, but I could take a look.” Her voice was as salesgirl as she could make it. “That would be from the Poser line?”
Spike hesitated, and then gave a snort of laughter. “Shopping for me? That’s sweet. I feel married already, and I haven’t yet fucked the bride.” His tone was amused, but she could hear a thread of anger running through it. He closed the distance between them with a few lightning steps, slid his hands under her arms, and tossed her onto the stone surface.
With a single step, he vaulted after her, landing upright.
Buffy’s feet tangled as she kicked back from him and she lost a sneaker. He stepped forward swiftly, punting it away with one booted foot. Buffy looked over just long enough to see the shoe punch a dark hole in the curtain of smoke; the candles flared in protest. She looked back to where he stood over her. His skin and hair seemed to glow in the red light, his clothes a deep, velvet black against the formless, flickering background.
All her training screamed at her to sweep his feet out from under him and roll away. And he knew it too. He just stood there, his shoulders back and his arms a little apart; he triple-dog dared her to do it. Which… was pretty much the only reason she was able to resist.
After a tense moment, his body language relaxed subtly. Maybe something about her lying prone at his feet, Buffy thought, as she glared up at him. His hands moved to his waist, and she saw the hated buckle glint between his fingers as he began to work the leather free.
Buffy swallowed hard; for the first time her eyes strayed below his belt. Oh God. She looked away immediately, but the image of his erection running down the left leg of his jeans was branded onto her retinas. Maybe Xander was right, she thought wildly, maybe seeing guy parts did make you go blind. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The sound of his low laughter did though, the bastard.
“Not so petite, eh Slayer? Don’t you worry, I’ll fit every inch into your-” She planted her feet against his and shoved them out from under him.
His hands slapped on the stone to either side of her. Still laughing, he hovered there above her for a moment. Buffy stared him down. She wanted so badly to knee him in the crotch and run. He sat back, pinning her legs at the knee; his long fingers reached for the waistband of her sweats.
Looking him right in the eye, she lifted her hips to help; she wanted this over with. His smirk got a little wider.
“Can’t make you fight, but I’ll bet I can make you scream.”
“Kiss my bikini-ready ass, Spike.”
“Appreciate the tip, love.”
Spike curled his fingers under the hem of her sweats and began to strip the stained, shapeless material down…
… revealing sleek curves, immaculate golden skin; she lit up the room like a thousand candles. The dark coverlet dropped forgotten to the floor as he stared at the Goddess in his bed. Her beauty had the same effect on him that it always did, but it was her tremulous smile of welcome, her regard, that struck him like a blow to the gut-his second shock of the evening. It was just like the Fates that she would finally come to him on the very night that he learned he must release her, discovered it in a way that had left him shaking. If he kept his silence, betrayed the fragile thing growing between them, he could have this one night. This night, when he was in desperate need of her warmth.
Why was he going so slow? There was another chance to kick him away when he shifted aside to pull her sweats the rest of the way off. She lay there, shivering a little, fighting herself to let it pass. Cool fingers banded her ankle and her remaining sneaker was tugged from her foot. She felt a hand touch her thigh and then her hip, almost tentative. She frowned, but then he was over her again, one rough, denim-covered thigh thrust proprietarily between hers.
She heard a low ripple of sound and knuckles brushed against her belly. Eyes wide, she looked at his face, saw his pupils dilate as he shimmied his hips. There was a rustle of fabric and a tiny clink as he shoved his jeans down, no hint of his earlier mischief in his expression. If anything, he looked driven.
She pushed away fear. It wasn’t sex, just something nasty but necessary, like those embarrassing medical exams you get when you’re old. At least he had quit playing around so she could get it over with and get on with her life.
Things to do before I die: twist off Spike’s tacky blond head.
He shifted, bringing his other leg between hers, pushing her thighs farther apart with a twist of his hips. He reached down there with his hand and she braced herself. She clenched her teeth when something weird and smooth bobbed and brushed against her inner thigh. Something hard prodded at the top of her cleft and then lower down over her opening, making her insides clench.
Over soon, over soon, she chanted inwardly as she stared up at him, his eyes gleaming slits in his sharp face.
He brought his hand back up. Now he was braced above her on both arms, but she could still feel him touching her between her legs. He moved his hips a little. Now. It was going to happen now. Buffy pulled in a deep breath and tightened her grip on the stone. That’s when he spoke.
“Wh-What?” Buffy’s mouth dropped open. She was close enough that she could see the candle flames reflected in his eyes, tiny points of light. His eyes narrowed, and she saw his gaze drop to her mouth.
“Beg me, Slayer,” he said again, watching her parted lips. Then, almost under his breath, “Ask me.”
Ask me.
Instantly Buffy remembered another time, another place, a man who had taken so much from her that, in the end, he would have nothing that was not offered freely. He had opened his hands that night, releasing her, not knowing she had already given him her heart. Show me. Her halting words, and when her voice failed, her hands guiding his, had turned her first experience with love into one of the most erotic, most shakingly intimate…
Buffy was still staring up at where Spike had been when he butted his head between her legs and licked her there.
For a moment, she couldn’t remember how to make her body work. Then his cool tongue pushed wetly between her nether lips, lapped over her clit. The electric sensation jackknifed her into motion, even as it made her shudder with remembered ecstasy. She clapped her hands onto his shoulders and yanked him up. With a powerful twist of her body, she was on top. Panting, she braced a hand on his chest, and reached down between their bodies-and realized what she would have to touch to get the job done.
He smiled up at her then, a wolf’s grin with lots of tongue and teeth.
She should have gone for it. Just grabbed his-his thing and, you know. Instead, she was thinking what else she could do to his coat when he flipped her onto her back again.
Teeth closed on her belly, and then right above her pubic bone, not painfully. The surprise of the caress as much as the jolts of sensation made her cry out and arch against his mouth. He nuzzled in between her legs. Her fingers flew to his head to push him away just as he found her clit with his lips and sucked hard. She shrieked, clenching her fingers hard against his scalp. He growled in response, burrowing deeper, licking and biting with exquisite care.
He had been faithful to Dru for over a hundred years, thumbed his nose at Angelus, shown himself to be above the common run. He’d never known a human woman this way. Her living blood pounded so close to the surface here, rushing to his call; her succulent flesh plumped under his tongue as he lapped and tasted. Her thighs clamped on his head, but they only held him closer, so fragrant, so sweet that he was dizzy with it.
He felt a flash of something almost like fear. He shook it off, and bent his head back to her little indulgence of a cunny, slipping the folds between his lips. He had to do this, no reason not to enjoy it. Out of an eternity, it was only this one night…
This one night was all he would have of her.
A stab of despair stilled him for a moment, and then his hands moved under her hips with renewed purpose, lifting her against his mouth. He could feel the incredible tension in her, knew he was riding her to the edge of her control. If he tipped her over it now, she could end him in an instant. He shuddered, his cock straining towards her, brushing wetly against his belly. He slipped his tongue into her, knowing it might be the last thing he ever did.
He wasn’t entirely sure he could live without her now anyway.
He pushed into her heat, feeling her snug even around his tongue. For a moment he was balanced on the lightning edge between heaven and hell, and then he heard her sob, and felt her go loose in his hands.
He felt a surge of triumph; for this one night, she was his.
Her thighs draped over his shoulders now. He settled himself lower, worked his tongue deeper, imagining every velvety ridge rubbing over his cock. He slid a hand over the curve of her hip until his fingers tangled in the warm, soft hair on her mons, squeezed and tugged at the intriguing little pad of flesh.
He stroked and tasted until she began to move against him, tiny involuntary movements of her hips, and then he laved a slick path up to her neglected clit. He couldn’t not be in her now; a finger took the place of his tongue. Holy Christ she was tight, this was going to be-he sucked hard, pulling the hood of her clit into his mouth as he worked another finger in. She made a strangled sound and bucked against his mouth. His cock bobbed hard against his abs in response, his balls tightening ominously, and he was forced to pull away, pressing his forehead against her thigh for a few breaths as he got himself under control.
And then he was at her again, as rough as he dared, pushing his tongue hard against her swollen clit again and again, let her feel the edge of his teeth on her outer lips and inner thighs. His fingers found that place inside and he pushed up hard. He felt her clit pulse under his tongue, knew she was close. He could make her come for him, make her scream like he promised. And he would, but not ’til he had his cock in her to the hilt.
He crawled up her body and looked into her face; her eyes were glassy and little unfocused, her breath hitching in and out. Not unlike someone on the brink of death, except that she was beautifully flushed along the upper curves of her breasts and over her round girly cheeks. He could feel the heat of it, wanted to taste it, but first… He moved his hips and his cock slipped easily between her legs and into his waiting hand. He wedged the head in her tight little entrance, felt her heat lick over the sensitive flesh, bringing it suddenly, intensely alive.
Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Good girl. Never looking away from her face, he brought his slick hand up. It shook a little until he palmed her breast, rubbing the wet fingers over her nipple. "Gonna fuck you now Slayer,” he breathed.
His blatant statement of intent was too much. Her iron control slipped and she started to struggle. "NO!" She arched against him, causing his cock to slip free. Her hands flew to his shoulders, pushing.
This was what he’d wanted, ages ago it seemed now. Now all he could think about was getting into her. He came down on her with all his weight, but she could kick him across the room if she wanted to.
"Shhh," he breathed against her ear. He worked a hand between their hips, stroking his fingers over her slick, swollen flesh. "Easy, Slayer. You can do this.” He struggled to find the words. “Just... let me. Let it happen."
Buffy felt pinned, surrounded. His body covered hers, his voice in her ear and the fingers rubbing over her clit wouldn't let her think, catch her breath. She panted, caught between the stone and what she knew must happen.
His hand moved away, and she whimpered. She needed that, needed the way she couldn’t think when he was touching her. And then he was again, touching her, lower, pressing in just like his tongue. She relaxed a little, something familiar.
The pressure grew and her eyes flew open as she realized it was not his fingers. “That's it, Slayer," he crooned in her ear.
"Oh God," she sobbed.
With a grunt of pleasure, he arched his body. There was a moment of resistance and then he was sliding his thick sex deep into her untried body.
He lay over her, gasping. The fit of her was so perfect, the intoxicating heat, that lovely place deep inside that gripped his knob like a fist. He had a moment to savor it before she came to life beneath him, bucking and squirming. He rode it out, gentling her with his weight and with nonsense words.
Too tight, too hard, too much. She burned and ached; every movement only made it worse. She wanted to throw him off, but he was everywhere and she felt weak. Does it make you weak? She could hear him murmuring.
"Shhh," he tested her with little movements of his hips as she stilled again, panting. "It's all right. Worst is over now, yeah?" And then he was kissing along her jaw. Her world went dark as he slanted his head over hers. And then he had it, that last thing. His lips closed over hers softly and she felt the flick of his tongue behind her teeth.
And then she was kissing him back, her hands in his hair. Desperate, searching kisses. What she needed, she needed from him. She hated, wanted, hurt. Her hips started to wriggle against his. “Please.” She shifted again, the tiniest movement that made her insides grip him, vise-like. He groaned, and bit his way back to her ear.
"Please what, Slayer? Please this?" He took an experimental thrust, a long push-pull of his cock that made her moan. The sound bolted through him, tightening his body.
He began to move his hips faster, harder with each stroke, until she felt him nudging her clit on every in thrust, sending little shocks through her. She angled her hips, pushing against him, wanting more, and gasped when he drove in hard in response, nudging her someplace deep inside. She moved blindly with him, rapt. She knew her body burned and ached, but she couldn't really distinguish where anymore.
"Right there, Slayer," he said in her ear, and nudged her again. "That's where I'm going to come. Deep inside your tight, little, virgin cunny." He gasped and arched deep.
And then he was talking again, just barely breathing the words. "Want to taste it Slayer, my come on you. Do you think you bled when you broke for me? Want to taste that, too. Your come, your Slayer blood. Fuck."
She felt a lightening flash of panic at his words. Perhaps he sensed it, his hips slowed. He stopped pumping into her deeply and instead started slow circles with his hips. The motion muddled her thoughts; the sensation was dizzying, as if her whole body was spinning
She closed her eyes, tried to center herself, but she couldn't-too many sensations all at once: that strange, sleek penetration that rubbed and prodded, his hand hard on her nape, his fingers shaping the curve her breast, plucking at her nipple, his mouth, teasing her lips and panting out those low, growled promises.
He shifted his legs, and his next stroke slammed into her clit and that spot deep inside. She cried out, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the stone.
She heard him laugh, breathy, triumphant, and then he did it again, making her convulse beneath him. He groped for one of her flailing hands and brought it up, pinned it to the stone next to her head. Bracing himself, he found her other hand and pinned it too. Buffy keened, wrapping her legs around his hips as he slammed into her. She saw his face twist with pleasure. He looked vicious, but she wasn’t afraid.
Buffy strained against his grip, but not to escape. Every maddening snap of his hips only made her clit feel tighter; the weight of him inside only made the deep ache more intense. Her fingers closed on his hands with desperate force. "Do it, Slayer. Scream for me," he growled.
Angry, she shoved her hips against him. The move seemed to lock him inside and he arched against her hard, bucking and gasping.
The tension was suddenly unbearable, as if someone had yanked a belt tight between her legs. Then he bucked his hips against her just… there and it snapped.
She did scream; he was moving on her, shoving shock waves through her body. The pleasure had a jagged, almost unbearable edge. He arched up on his arms with a snarl, the leap of his sex inside her pushing her up over another smaller peak.
The sensations ebbed almost as fast as they struck, leaving her pulling in deep, ragged breaths.
She drifted for awhile, darkly content, his weight a vague surrounding presence, slowly becoming aware of the soreness and the still pleasurable throb between her legs. There was a pebble or something under one of her shoulder blades, or maybe it was a button. After a long time, the weight on her stirred to life. Her brows twitched in a frown, but he moved down rather than away, nosing into her as he went.
Occasionally she felt something cool and wet: his tongue.
She felt the nudge of his nose against her pubic bone, and then the touch of his lips. His tongue slid over her; she must be a mess. She heard him growl and remembered the blood, why she shouldn't let him do this, but she couldn’t seem to care.
***
Still shuddering from a final tugging caress of his mouth, she opened her eyes and there he was above her, heavy-lidded, hair mussed. His lips were shiny and parted slightly. She could see just a hint of his teeth. An image blossomed in her mind of testing the hard edge with the pad of her thumb.
Feeling her first hint of unease, she looked away from his mouth. His expression was relaxed, in a way that she'd never seen in a vampire before, or in a man for that matter. His muscles were loose and melty, his body resting heavily on hers as his lazy gaze roved over her. His penis was still thick and heavy and slick between her upper thighs; she shuddered at the memory of how it felt inside her body. His gaze landed on a point just south of her right earlobe, fixed itself, as he began a slow slide with his hips. He shifted and then he was pushing into her again. Her vision went blurry and she whimpered. She was sore, even as slick as she was, but the pressure was irresistible.
He buried his face against her neck as he began to move, each stroke like he was striking a bell inside her, sending a pulse of pleasure from deep in her belly. He growled low in his throat; by the time she parsed out the burning in her neck from the one between her legs she wasn’t really sure how long he’d been feeding. For an endless moment she clutched him closer, caught transfixed between pain-pleasure of his suckling and the tension ratcheting up in her lower body. But the voice inside her grew stronger; the one that knew this had to stop.
Don’t make me kill you.
She didn’t know why she didn’t want to anymore, but she was sure of it, as certain as she was that she wanted to live. Before she could act, there was a hot, tugging sensation as he released her neck. His hips moved harder, faster, as he arched back. His tongue curled up, licking his lips, but it was her blood this time, not his own.
Her hands closed hard on his biceps. He was vamped out, but that wasn’t what transfixed her. His head was thrown back, exposing the line of his throat. The yellow eyes that saw too much were closed, his lips parted and soft like he was waiting for a kiss, waiting for the kiss. He looked incredibly vulnerable, yet relaxed, even exalted. She felt like she was seeing something real, something intimate, something rare. He was… beautiful. She cried out as she convulsed with pleasure, warm and liquid this time, washing over her entire body, lighting up nerves that were still humming. His image blurred, and for a long moment she could only feel.
***
The belt buckle was poking her thigh.
She noticed a number of other things too, almost at once, and none of them were comforting. The light in the room was yellow now, not red. When had the spell ended? Spike was lying over her in her and she-her arms clasped his shoulders and her bare legs were intertwined with his. The hard object under her shoulder blade leapt back into her awareness with a redoubled pang.
Buffy jerked into motion, just as she felt his shoulders tense under her hands. Shoving him away, she rolled athletically off the sarcophagus. The motion tugged painfully at the bite on her neck and called her attention to the slick tenderness between her legs. The yellow light was coming from the camp lantern, a beacon left at the crypt door by the ever-thoughtful and organized Willow. Emotion welled up in her, a sob catching in her throat. She spied her discarded sweats and lunged for them.
She knew she should keep an eye on him, knew he could attack at any time. She managed one look, taking in his hair, mussed by her own hands, the dark smear of her blood at the corner of his mouth, and he hadn’t moved at all, much less pulled up his pants; the streaks of blood there stood out clearly on his pale flesh. She looked away, yanking the sweats up over her legs, all her senses hyperaware, waiting for him to move or speak. She braved another glance and saw that he was still sprawled on his back. She felt a flash of irritation. Where did he get off acting all sacrificial?
Tugging her tank top down, she noticed his coat lying on the floor. Stepping over it, she snatched up her own damaged shirt and slipped it on. She hopped over the circle like a child stepping over a crack in the sidewalk. Heedless of her bare feet, she raced for the door. Grabbing up the lantern, she opened the door just enough to slip through and pulled it shut behind her with a satisfying boom.
Chapter 5