gratuity, noncon - installment 1 - NC17
Spike grunted, getting pushed to the ground. “Bloody hell, Slayer!”
“Shut up.” She tore open his shirt and raked her nails down his chest. Trails of blood welled up, and Spike hissed as the pain sparked his arousal.
“Buffy, get off-” She hauled her fist back and punched him in the face. “Ow! Buggering fuck!” She grappled with the fly of his pants, shoving them far enough down his hips to expose his hardening cock. “What the fuck happened to ‘not doing this anymore’?”
“Shut up.” She hit him in the face again and clawed at his nipples. Spike groaned, frustrated that he was getting hard at the rough treatment. He had loved her, true enough, but he couldn’t stand to take any more of her shit. She would tear him apart and, no matter how good the sex might be, he had enough self-respect to know he deserved better.
“Buffy, leave me alo-” She punched him in the gut that time, knocking his unneeded breath from his lungs. As he choked to regain his breath, she pulled her underwear aside and sank onto him. As she started lifting and lowering herself, Spike began to struggle. “I said-” She grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the ground.
Spike tried to wriggle away, despite his now swimming vision. “Stop!” She ignored him, riding his now fully hard cock faster. “Buffy, stop!” The slayer backhanded him, and he felt his jaw crack on the impact. He reached up to push her off, but she leaned forward, forcing and pinning his arms beneath his body.
Her changed position brought a new pressure to his cock, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pleasure. He twisted back and forth, bucking his hips, trying to get her to stop. “Buffy, please,” he moaned, wincing at the pain in his jaw. “Stop…” He could feel tears welling, hating it. He hated that he loved her, he hated that she didn’t love him, he hated that she wanted to hurt him, he hated that he couldn’t stop her, and, most of all, he hated that he cared and couldn’t just take the sex for sex.
He felt manipulated and violated, and it wasn’t often that he felt that way. What was worse was that, if their roles were reversed, something that would never have happened because he just wasn’t that sort of person, he would be pushed away, if not killed, by everyone he had come close to in the last years. But if he turned to them now, no one would blink. Because it was Buffy.
Buffy was perfect. She could do no wrong. Anything that might happen was and always would be the nasty vampire’s fault. He cried out as she tightened around him, and then she hit him again.
He would bruise, and it would be ugly for days. Because what did he eat? Pig. Cow if he was lucky. But that was like eating rotten potato chips day in and day out. It tasted terrible and it was hardly nutritional. The only thing it truly did was fill the ache. Even then, it wasn’t enough, because he couldn’t get enough. That was why he ate human food, to fill himself, even if it didn’t provide nutrition to him.
So he would never manage to heal quickly or easily. But no one would care or notice.
Another punch drew his attention back to Buffy when he felt his ribs crack. He screamed, and she struck again. He felt a lung pop, and gasped, choking out blood. Her rhythm grew more rapid and ragged. He felt her twitching around him and let out a quiet keen. “Buffy~y…” He panted softly, struggling for breath. “Please… Please stop… I can’t… I don’t…”
She leaned closer, her mouth against his ear. “Shut up, Spike. Don’t play coy. You want it, you like it, you need it. Because who else are you gonna get it from?” She grunted as she ground her hips into him. “I’m close; aren’t you?” He whimpered, trying to pull away. “Yeah you are. I know those throaty sounds.” A sob escaped his throat as she rose up and violently ploughed her way through to their joined orgasms.
She stood up, readjusting her clothes, and stared down at him. He didn’t open his eyes, couldn’t look into her face. He grunted when she kicked him, and just lay there, taking the sudden and vicious attack. When she finished, she spat on him and left, presumably to finish her patrol.
When she was plenty far away, he started picking himself up, putting his clothes right, sighing at the ruined shirt, and made his way back to his crypt, unaware of the tears finally crawling down his face. He sat in his chair, staring blankly at the television, ignoring the aching sobs jarring his broken ribs, working on plans to leave this damned town for good.
Because who needed this shit?