*sheepish*
She just couldn't help it. Literally, and that was the point, wasn't it? Cool steel can hold even a Slayer, for a short while. But tugging too hard, wincing against the crush, the strain, feeling the metal give before her wrist, that wouldn't be playing fair, would it? That would be a Slayer move. At the moment, she was justagirl, and she would play his sick little game to completion.
But if she wanted, she could. Rip off the cuff, use it as a convenient additional weight as her hand met the sharp lines of his face. It wouldn't surprise him in the least, which is perhaps why she resisted. He would chuckle that low, dirty laugh, the one which always surprised her with its sheen of insanity (and why should that surprise her? Drusilla? Angelus? Vampire?), tucking his wicked tongue behind still-blunt teeth, a panther crouched, wipe the blood, lick it (and she hated when he did that) off slender fingers, and stroke himself to a finish, making lewd comments about her scent. He was too predictable. So was she.
She never thought - never, not since Merrick had thrown that first vamp at her - that a vampire's hunger - or even another human's hunger - would be a good thing. She didn't like looking at him like this; had to take it in small doses, peeking up through lowered lids, wishing he wasn't staring so utterly, so intensely, at her. She rolled her hips up right as he thrust down and was rewarded for this ingenuity by seeing the white length of his neck stretch upwards and his eyes flutter temporarily closed.
She gave an experimental tug on the cuffs, not sure why, but wanting something else, something more than just thin slices of metal holding her. Ah, there. The glint of yellow, the seismic shift as his ridges threatened to emerge, and the deep, inaudible, almost-growl that she was only aware of through the vibrations of his chest on hers, the buzzing where their ribs nudged against each other, sweat-slicked and perfect. His free hand flew to her wrists, squeezing hard, and that ache she was nursing got lost in the rush of arousal spiraling from his silent command.
She realised he was speaking, realised he was growling with the intensity of his words and the force of his thrusts
"...still, pet. You stay right the fuck there. God, how can such a slut be so fucking tight? Just take it, take what you need from your Spike. Love this cunt. Love that I'm the only one who knows how to treat her right. Know what you need, sweetheart, and what you want, and you're mine. Every time you come I own this cunt that much more. Every fuck means you're further from them" - snarl - "covered in me, baby, won't ever get away. And I'm yours, love, yours, you gorgeous little, fucking, slut. Want to hear you whine, Slayer, want to..."
Orgasm is a funny thing. She wanted to protest a half dozen ways his disgusting, filthy, and just inaccurate words, but she was riding the edge of oblivion, and she couldn't speak for the life of her. Spike, with words as his constant companions - weapons, lovers - would spill when he was most vulnerable, when he couldn't keep them throat-locked anymore.
She wished he could hold out, could save these embarrassing and pathetic feelings he had for her, for when she was gone. When the cuffs were empty and he could smoke in bed without expecting a broken nose. But Spike could no more shut up on the verge of supernova-coming than she could force words out, so she just blocked and blocked and
"love you love you love oh god Buffy love you so fucking much want to drown in you, christ jesus fuck love love - "
For that brief, burning moment when the world roars into silence and the whole body turns molten, she thought he could be right.
**********
and there are prepositions at practically the end of every sentence. How did that happen? But if I revise it will be as if I am writing and not merely thought-vomiting. So I resist.
But if she wanted, she could. Rip off the cuff, use it as a convenient additional weight as her hand met the sharp lines of his face. It wouldn't surprise him in the least, which is perhaps why she resisted. He would chuckle that low, dirty laugh, the one which always surprised her with its sheen of insanity (and why should that surprise her? Drusilla? Angelus? Vampire?), tucking his wicked tongue behind still-blunt teeth, a panther crouched, wipe the blood, lick it (and she hated when he did that) off slender fingers, and stroke himself to a finish, making lewd comments about her scent. He was too predictable. So was she.
She never thought - never, not since Merrick had thrown that first vamp at her - that a vampire's hunger - or even another human's hunger - would be a good thing. She didn't like looking at him like this; had to take it in small doses, peeking up through lowered lids, wishing he wasn't staring so utterly, so intensely, at her. She rolled her hips up right as he thrust down and was rewarded for this ingenuity by seeing the white length of his neck stretch upwards and his eyes flutter temporarily closed.
She gave an experimental tug on the cuffs, not sure why, but wanting something else, something more than just thin slices of metal holding her. Ah, there. The glint of yellow, the seismic shift as his ridges threatened to emerge, and the deep, inaudible, almost-growl that she was only aware of through the vibrations of his chest on hers, the buzzing where their ribs nudged against each other, sweat-slicked and perfect. His free hand flew to her wrists, squeezing hard, and that ache she was nursing got lost in the rush of arousal spiraling from his silent command.
She realised he was speaking, realised he was growling with the intensity of his words and the force of his thrusts
"...still, pet. You stay right the fuck there. God, how can such a slut be so fucking tight? Just take it, take what you need from your Spike. Love this cunt. Love that I'm the only one who knows how to treat her right. Know what you need, sweetheart, and what you want, and you're mine. Every time you come I own this cunt that much more. Every fuck means you're further from them" - snarl - "covered in me, baby, won't ever get away. And I'm yours, love, yours, you gorgeous little, fucking, slut. Want to hear you whine, Slayer, want to..."
Orgasm is a funny thing. She wanted to protest a half dozen ways his disgusting, filthy, and just inaccurate words, but she was riding the edge of oblivion, and she couldn't speak for the life of her. Spike, with words as his constant companions - weapons, lovers - would spill when he was most vulnerable, when he couldn't keep them throat-locked anymore.
She wished he could hold out, could save these embarrassing and pathetic feelings he had for her, for when she was gone. When the cuffs were empty and he could smoke in bed without expecting a broken nose. But Spike could no more shut up on the verge of supernova-coming than she could force words out, so she just blocked and blocked and
"love you love you love oh god Buffy love you so fucking much want to drown in you, christ jesus fuck love love - "
For that brief, burning moment when the world roars into silence and the whole body turns molten, she thought he could be right.
**********
and there are prepositions at practically the end of every sentence. How did that happen? But if I revise it will be as if I am writing and not merely thought-vomiting. So I resist.