For rating, setting etc see Part 1. This part may possibly verge into NC17. Not sure. It’s also a little longer.
Heroes in Hell Part 3
Moments passed. He made no move towards her – didn’t offer to help her up – just stared at her.
“You can’t be here,” he said, at last. “Not in Hell. Not you. Someone’s made a cock-up.”
He looked wildly around as if searching for the culprit, but there was no one in sight save the two of them.
“Oh.” She wiped strands of wet hair from her eyes and pushed herself to her feet. “No, I’m not dead or anything. I have a visitor’s pass. See?”
She held out her hand towards him so he could see the ink mark on the back of it, afraid suddenly that it might look more faded already or have run in the rain. But it was still there, stark and black on her hand, and the dog was looking sort of – wolf-like.
He gazed at it as if he couldn’t process what she was saying either, looking from her hand to her face and back again. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
At last, she said, “Kind of soaked to the skin here – also cold –” which was true, she was beginning to shiver. “Mind if I come in?”
For a horrible moment, he looked like he was going to slam the door in her face rather than say yes, but then he took a step back and moved to one side.
“All right, then.”
She followed him into the crypt and he slammed the door shut behind them. Then there was a loud clatter and clang as he dropped a heavy metal bar into place. Now that they were in the light, she could see what he’d been holding in his hand. It was a large butcher’s knife, the blade wickedly sharp. She wondered what kind of double-glazing salesman warranted that kind of response.
He was still staring at her, like he expected her to go up in a puff of smoke or maybe turn into some huge scary demon with teeth and claws to match.
“You look like a drowned rat,” he said, at last.
Now she was here – now she could see him – the reality of what she’d done was sinking in. She was in Hell. Willow had opened a portal for her and she’d come to Hell to get him out. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed and dizzy and the room began to go round in crazy circles. Then everything went black.
When she became aware of herself again, she was lying on a bed and someone had taken her shoes off. The ceiling above her head was low and festooned with cobwebs and she frowned at the sight. Mom must have forgotten to vacuum for, like, centuries!
No, that wasn’t right, was it, and this wasn’t her bedroom in Sunnydale. This was Spike’s crypt – except not, because this was Hell and Spike was dead.
Cautiously, because her head was throbbing, she looked to one side and saw him there, staring at her anxiously and holding her sodden sneakers, with her socks tucked into them, in his hand.
“Slayer, you okay?” His voice was strained. He didn’t seem pleased to see her at all.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She sat up, thinking, as so often, that this wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “Don’t suppose you have any spare clothes I can put on while mine dry off, do you?”
His hand clutched the sneakers tightly to his chest and the muscle in his cheek twitched again. Then he said, “I’ll see what I can find.”
She watched him move off across the crypt, which, though well-lit with candles, still felt dank and uninviting. She couldn’t imagine herself ever thinking it was comfy the way she had his old one, which in most ways it closely resembled. There was even a TV tucked away in the corner, though the screen was dark.
She hadn’t thought there could be television in Hell. What programs would be on it? Most likely endless no-talent contest reality game shows or maybe Fox News 24/7.
There was a metal chest next to the battered armchair. Spike was kneeling in front of it and rummaging around inside. His hair shone glorious silver in the candlelight. Her eyes couldn’t help travelling down the curve of neck and shoulder to his arms with the corded ropes of muscle. He was thin – she could see his backbone through his black t-shirt, which had to be the one he’d died in. Was he eating at all, she wondered? Did you need to eat in Hell?
Then he was coming back towards her with a long chocolate-brown shirt in his hands. She thought she recognised that too. Hadn’t she ripped it off him once?
“Here,” he said. “Put this on,” and he dropped it into her lap, turned and walked away again, slumping down into the armchair with his back to her.
She changed quickly, draping her wet jeans and shirt over a nearby sarcophagus. Her bare feet flinched away from the cold stone floor, which felt damp – even faintly slimy – not dusty and dry like the floor of the Sunnydale crypt.
“Spike?” She felt diffident now. His reaction to seeing her was so far from what she’d expected that she didn’t know how to proceed.
He’d been staring off into the corner where the TV stood. At the sound of her voice, he jumped and looked up at her. His eyes were stony.
“If this is some trick,” he said, “another way to torment the stupid vampire, say so now. Ha-bloody-ha. Very funny.”
“Oh!” Well, that explained some things, she supposed. “It’s no trick, Spike. It really is me. I’ve come to take you out of here.”
He blinked. “Come again. Don’t think I heard you right then, Slayer.”
“Buffy. It’s Buffy, remember? We’ve been on first name terms for a while now. I said, I’ve come to take you out of here. You’re not supposed to be in Hell. There’s been a mistake. Heroes don’t belong in Hell.”
He tilted his head in that familiar way of his, that made her breath catch in her throat, and then he began to laugh. “Pull the other one!” he said.
“What other one?” She wrapped her arms round herself, remembering what the check-in demon had said about him being difficult to persuade. It certainly wasn’t going well so far.
His laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun, much to her relief. She hadn’t liked that aching quality in it. And she also didn’t like the way his face turned savage, the ridges and bumps pushing forward on his forehead, his yellow eyes slanting and glowing bright as sulphur. He snarled at her, showing his fangs.
“Abandon hope,” he said, “all ye who enter here. Do you think I didn’t read it, or what? I wasn’t born yesterday. Piss off back to your little demon friends and leave me the fuck alone!”
Now he was on his feet, looming over her, and she could hear that familiar vibrating rumble in his chest as he growled. He took a menacing step forward.
For a moment, she almost quailed and gave ground, but then she told herself not to be stupid. It was just Spike and she knew how to handle him.
“Dumb vampire! It’s not some demon playing games with you. It’s me – one hundred per cent genuine Buffy. I’ve come to take you home with me.” At least, that was what she hoped.
He tilted his head again but the rumbling growl didn’t stop.
“Oh yeah? And why exactly would you want to do that? For that matter, where is home these days?”
She wanted to say – for you, it should be where I am, but the look on his face told her that might not go down too well. She was pretty certain he still didn’t believe she was who she said she was.
“Home is in Scotland,” she told him. “I’m – doing stuff there, but I’ll tell you all about it later. And as for why I want to take you with me, it’s because – “ and suddenly the words she’d meant to say felt heavy as stones in her mouth. What if he didn’t believe her this time either? “It’s because I need you,” she finished lamely.
The moment the words left her lips she regretted them. Way to go, Summers, with making him feel wanted for more than just muscle.
He laughed again, and the bones of his face crunched as they realigned themselves. Now he was human-seeming and beautiful, but he looked just as angry. He bent down and picked up a pack of cigarettes that lay on the table, tapped one out and stuck it in his mouth. The lighter needed three attempts to make it work but once it did, he inhaled deeply until the cigarette tip glowed, poised all his weight on one hip and regarded her through the smoke with a faint sneer on his face.
“So you need me, do you?” he said. “What, the Ponce let you down again?”
“Who?” She blinked at him in surprise and then coughed, waving her hand through the smoke to clear it. Not that it helped much. Instead, it seemed to wreathe her more closely.
He rolled his eyes. “Angel. I meant Angel.”
“What does Angel have to do with this?” He wasn’t making any sense.
He flopped back down into the armchair and sat gazing up at her, smoking and regarding her through slitted eyelids.
“Because you’re in love with him?” he suggested, in a sarcastic voice. “He’s the love of your life – your soul mate or whatever the fuck. Least – looked that way to me the last day in Sunnydale, the way you two were swapping spit.”
“Eww!” He’d seen her kissing Angel of course, but she’d managed to reassure him pretty well at the time that it wasn’t what it looked like. Or at least, she’d thought she had. Apparently he’d had second thoughts.
“I told you there were no tongues involved. Why won’t you believe me? Angel’s an old – friend -” and dammit, why did her voice have to hesitate on the word? – “I was just glad to see him, that’s all.”
His voice turned bitter.
“Thought I told you once you two would never be friends? Think I stand by that,” and he took another long drag on his cigarette.
She was getting annoyed now. “Soo – let me get this straight. I come to take you out of Hell and you say no, because you’re still sulking about me kissing Angel?”
That startled him. “Wouldn’t call it sulking,” he said, crossly. “Just not what a bloke wants to see after the best night of his life – the girl he spent it with kissing some fat git with a terminal case of bad hair.”
“Angel is not fat!” The words were out before she could stop them but then she took a deep breath. She had to keep her temper because somehow she knew that if there was a way for things to go from bad to worse in Hell, it was sure to happen.
“Knew you’d defend old lardarse,” he groused. “Dru was just the same. Daddy could do no wrong. What is it about him that makes women go all soft in the head anyway?”
She found she’d wrapped her arms about herself again and frowned in annoyance because she knew it made her look weak.
“I am not here to talk about Angel. Whatever you might think, he and I aren’t together. In fact –“ and the memory deepened her frown –“we’re further apart than we’ve ever been.”
Now he looked interested. He tilted his head again. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
How to begin, she thought, but it seemed he wouldn’t leave the subject alone until he knew everything so maybe it was best to just tell him.
She hugged herself even tighter. “I think he’s sold out. He’s not helping the hopeless any more or whatever he was supposed to be doing. He’s C.E.O. of this big L.A. law firm. Giles says they’re really bad news – big with the evil, maybe even the biggest.”
He looked genuinely shocked for a moment, but then he laughed, though not like he thought it was funny.
“This law firm – it wouldn’t happen to be Wolfram & Hart, would it?”
She stared at him. “Yes. How did you know?” At the same time, she found herself trying to tease the name apart and then looking again at the mark on her hand. “Is a hart anything like a moose?”
He leaned back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully.
“Got it in one, Slayer. And old Rupert’s right. They’re very bad news indeed.” His gaze went distant. “What the fuck is Angel up to?”
But she was still putting the puzzle together. “Does Wolfram & Hart have something to do with this place, because I don’t see why else I have a dog and a goat – or a sheep, I guess – and a deer stamped on the back of my hand?”
He stubbed his cigarette out in a glass ashtray that was overflowing with butts.
“Full marks to the lady. They run the joint and a whole bunch of other hell dimensions– bought the franchise recently, so I believe, from the original owner.”
She decided she didn’t need to know who the original owner had been. There was enough to process already. Like – was Angel somehow in charge of Hell now and if so, how did that work? The things she’d have to say to him when she saw him next!
It seemed Spike’s thoughts were running on a different track, however.
“Might’ve guessed the useless old tosser would fall on his feet,” he grumbled. “S’pose when he finally meets the pointy end of a bit of wood, he’ll have his own little niche all staked out in an exclusive Hell for jammy bastards– or maybe he’ll even be Management. That’d be just like him – give him a chance to go on lording it over everyone even after he’s dead.”
She opened her mouth instinctively to defend Angel again but then closed it. There really was nothing she, or anyone, could say.
“You wanna know what Angel’s up to? Why don’t you ask him yourself after we get out of here? You two should have loads to talk about. You could compare notes about this place, for one thing.”
Even as the words left her mouth she remembered that taking Spike out of Hell didn’t necessarily mean taking him back home with her. It just meant he wouldn’t be in Hell any more. This wasn’t like when Angel had come back from Hell in Senior Year. He’d fallen into it alive. Spike had been burned to ashes – dead as a vampire could be.
The thought made her heart hurt, but she reminded herself that whatever happened she was here to right a wrong – to save him from Hell. If she got him back, that would be a bonus – a very big bonus – but it wasn’t – couldn’t be – her main consideration, no matter how she felt about him.
Then Spike’s words broke in on her thoughts again.
“As if Angel’d ever be seen dead in this place!” he fumed. “He’s far too up himself for that. He’d have been in Classic Hell, I’ll be bound – all fire and brimstone and whatnot. That’s where all the toffs go.”
She remembered what the check-in demon had said about the Hell for unrepentant sinners.
“I don’t think so.”
But he wasn’t really listening. Instead, he sighed morosely and shook another cigarette out of the packet.
“In any case, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a moment, she watched him – watched his hand go to his mouth and back – the way his cheeks hollowed when he sucked in smoke. He had to be kidding her!
“What do you mean you’re not going anywhere? You can’t stay here, Spike. You don’t – “ her chest was beginning to ache –“don’t belong in Hell.”
His eyes when he looked at her now were like cold blue stones.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Slayer.” Then he looked away into the corner where the TV stood. “Should be starting any minute.”
As if conjured by his words, a white spot appeared in the very centre of the blank, black screen. It grew rapidly and with it came colour and movement. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help staring at it, curious to see what it would show, while Spike’s eyes were fixed on it as if they couldn’t look away.
The sound of screams filled the room.
Eventually, she said, “What is this?” though she already knew.
His face was painted with silver shadows as the screen flickered and changed to show yet another horror – a young girl this time, who cowered down, hands held out as if to beg for mercy. She had a bloody scratch on one cheek and the spaghetti straps of her dainty little camisole were torn.
As Buffy watched, he moved forward into view – unmistakeable with his white hair and the long black duster that flowed round his body like a living thing. His face was a merciless mask in alabaster until the feral grin split it.
“Don’t,” the girl whispered, voice denuded of hope. “Please – don’t.”
And his voice – the deep, resonant voice that could still thrill her when he spoke, “Oh, don’t worry, love. I won’t hurt you – much.”
Then he grabbed the girl by the shoulders and backed her into a wall, pinning her there while one hand ripped the torn fabric apart and fastened on an exposed breast, twisting the nipple cruelly.
“Oh Christ!” Buffy put her hand to her mouth. It was obvious what was going to happen next – and now she was remembering that same face looming above her as she struggled on the bathroom floor – the intense blue eyes, the face devoid of reason or anything to appeal to.
She shut her eyes.
“Now do you see?” he said, dully. “Even if you really are Buffy – and the jury’s still out on that, love – I couldn’t go with you. I do belong here, with the scum – the damned -belong here more than most of them.”
“No.” She forced herself to open her eyes. Spike on the TV was in vampire face now. He had the girl on the ground, his body jerking rhythmically at the hips, forward and back, harder and harder. She was crying and as Buffy watched, he bent down and licked the tears away and then set fangs to her throat.
Spike who sat in the armchair staring, had his mouth open and suspicious damp patches on his cheeks. “I don’t remember where or when I killed her,” he said, softly. “I don’t even remember her face.”
“No!” Buffy said the word again, louder this time. “That wasn’t you. You didn’t have a soul then. You were just a monster like all the others.”
He half-glanced at her but his eyes never truly left the screen. “Wasn’t me? Tell yourself that, Slayer, if it makes you feel better.”
Abruptly, the picture on the screen changed and now TV Spike looked very different – all ripped jeans and safety pins and punked-up hair in a white halo round his head. The muscles in his bare arms rippled. He seemed to be in a Subway train, the flickering lights as it hurtled through the tunnels casting crazy shadows on his face. There was a black chick there too – very cool with the ‘tude and the afro and the long leather coat.
Buffy recognised the coat at the same time as she realised what she was seeing.
“Yeah.” Spike seemed to have divined her thoughts. “Nikki Wood – Robin’s mum – the second Slayer I killed.”
His eyes still seemed fixed to the screen. In fact, he even leaned forward to see better, resting his weight on his forearms.
“God, she was something!” he said, a touch of awe in his voice.
The battle swayed backwards and forwards the length of the Subway carriage and in spite of herself, Buffy couldn’t not watch. How could he have beaten Nikki, she wondered? The woman – and she was very much a woman, not a girl – looked unstoppable. She remembered, too, he’d told her the first time they met that the last Slayer he’d killed had begged for her life. Nikki didn’t look like the begging kind either.
Nikki had Spike on the floor now, hands at his throat, throttling him. He seemed done for, but then suddenly, the carriage lights went out, flickered madly and then came on again, and when they did, Nikki was the one underneath.
Spike leaned even further forward, a look of intense concentration on his face.
“Just watch,” he said. “This is a good bit.”
But Buffy tore her eyes away.
“I can’t – not any more,” she whispered, just as she heard Nikki’s choked voice pleading, “Please – I have to get home to my son – to my Robin.”
Spike didn’t look at her. He waved a vague arm in the direction of the bed.
“Have a kip if you want. You must be tired.”
“What about you?” She couldn’t believe he meant to carry on watching. Why would he do this to himself? But he shrugged off her question as if he’d barely heard it.
“Think I’ll just watch telly for a bit, if it’s all the same to you.”
She was tired, she realised – so tired that her legs wobbled under her as she wove her way back across the crypt. She felt sick to her stomach, her resolve all in tatters.
The bed was hard but she collapsed onto it gratefully and lay there, trying to ignore the periodic sounds of ugly death.
When Buffy woke, she couldn’t remember falling asleep in the first place and she didn’t feel much rested. Instead, a sort of dull exhaustion seemed to have sunk right into her bones. She lay staring up at the low stone ceiling, feeling disoriented and out of sorts.
There was no natural light in the crypt so it was impossible to tell how much time had passed but at least the TV was – thankfully – silent.
“Spike?” She sat up, then winced. Her mouth was dry and her head was pounding like it had that time with the kitten poker and all the whisky, which didn’t seem fair, as she hadn’t drunk anything.
Spike was asleep in the armchair, though as usual when he slept he just looked dead, like a marble effigy on a tombstone.
She swung her legs off the bed and padded silently across the floor to stand in front of him, staring at his face – at the soft down of blond hair on his arms, the blunt fingernails, the way his hands gripped the armrests of the chair so hard, even in sleep, that the knuckles stood out in stark relief on the backs of them.
One platinum curl made a crescent moon on his forehead. She lifted a hand and brushed it gently back. The hair under her fingers was soft – not gel-encrusted like he’d worn it in Sunnydale. Maybe, she thought, you couldn’t get hair gel in Hell?
God, he was beautiful still! All compact and sleek like a white-haired hunting cat. Yet the sharp angles of his face distressed her now. He looked like he was starving and she didn’t think it was from lack of food. No, this place was slowly killing him and yet he could never die from it.
Her hand moved from his forehead to trace the line of his cheek – to run fingers over his soft lower lip. He didn’t move but he seemed to be aware of her touch even in sleep because he was frowning slightly now, no longer statue-perfect.
Suddenly, she felt a profound tenderness for him. She wanted to smooth that frown away – to give him hope again. In fact, she had to as a matter of urgency, because when she looked at her hand the mark had definitely faded, the lines greying and blurring. There was no telling how much longer it would last.
“Spike?” She bent down and set her lips to his. His mouth was cold but his lips were soft just as she remembered them, parting a little for her tongue as if in reluctant welcome. She hadn’t kissed him, she realised, since the night that Riley had found her with him in the crypt in Sunnydale – the night she’d decided to stop seeing him for her own sake and his. He’d tried to kiss her that time in the bathroom but she hadn’t let him – and why did she have to remember that now? She hadn’t time to dwell on it.
She’d closed her eyes without realising it so it was a shock when she felt cold fingers on her lips, prising them away from his.
“You shouldn’t be doing that.” His voice was hoarse – a smoker’s voice. “Forgotten what was on telly last night already, have you? Making nice with the bloody rapist.”
She opened her eyes. He was looking at her now and his waking face had set instantly into familiar lines of despair. He raised a hand and touched her cheek. Then he pushed her away and stood up, turning his back on her.
It didn’t look as if sleep had improved his mood at all.
She frowned. “I haven’t forgotten. But I knew about that stuff anyway. Don’t you remember what you said to me in Sunnydale, Spike – all that crap about how I’d never seen the real you? You painted a pretty graphic picture.”
He was lighting a cigarette.
“Not the same as seeing it with your own eyes though, is it?”
This was true. She wrapped her arms tight about herself yet again.
“Okay, I admit it shocked me. But it doesn’t change anything. Yes, you did those things, but you didn’t have a soul then. See – I remember what I said to you too that time. I’ve seen you change. I’ve seen your penance.”
“Penance!” His voice was full of scorn. “As if I could ever atone for that!”
He pointed at the blank TV.
“I raped and I killed, Buffy – for a hundred years I gloried in every moment of it. You think getting a soul is like some kind of magic sticking plaster- that it’s gonna make it all better? Grow up, for God’s sake!”
When had her elbows gotten so bony, she wondered. They were digging into the skin of her palms and it hurt.
“That’s kind of ironic,” she said. “You sound just like Angel.”
“What?” He swung round to glare at her. “No way in hell do I sound like that sad old twat! Don’t insult me.”
“Oh, so sorry.” She avoided gritting her teeth somehow. “Did I hurt your sensitive vampire feelings? You’re the one who needs to grow up, Spike. You have to get over this stupid need to punish yourself for something you didn’t do. That Spike on the TV wasn’t the one that died in the Hellmouth – not the one that’s so wracked with guilt he can’t see a way out when it’s offered him. You haven’t been that Spike for a long time.”
She was in full-on rant mode now and he could only stare at her.
“Okay, I get that you feel bad about what you did – you should!- but if you really wanted to make up for it, you’d stop sitting here feeling all sorry for yourself and come with me.”
There was silence for a moment. Then he said, “When I burned up in the Hellmouth, I thought I was finished – that that was it. Never expected this, Slayer – not in a million years. Believe it or not, I never expected to end up in Hell. God, I was so stupid.”
“Not really.” She tried to smile at him. “That demon on the check-in desk in the – waiting room, was it? He did agree that you might have been sent here by mistake.”
He shook his head. “No mistake. I’m meant to be here. I know that now. Your check-in demon was just stringing you along.” He indicated the TV again. “So many victims – how can there ever be forgiveness for that? There can’t.”
She took a step towards him. Then another.
“Maybe not, but I forgive you.”
He watched her coming with a strange, trapped look on his face. Then he took a step backwards to her one forwards, another, until he was flat against the crypt wall with her right in front of him, pinning him in place.
He shook his head. “I believed you had, all those times near the end when you lay in my arms and slept. But the more I think about it, the more I realise you can’t have. How can you forgive that, Buffy? I tried to rape you.”
“No.” She reached out a tentative hand towards him and touched his cheek again. “Well, okay. Yes.”
Her finger traced the line of his jaw.
“I’m not making light of what you did, Spike, but you really believe if I thought that you’d deliberately set out to rape me – that it was premeditated – that we’d be having this conversation? Come on, Spike. Credit me with having some sense.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “What difference does it make whether I meant to do it or not? Fact is – I did do it. How can you –” the muscle jerked in his cheek again. “Dunno how you can even bear to touch me.”
“Silly.” She moved closer, pressing her body to his, where it fit perfectly, just like it always had. “Of course it makes a difference. And I can bear to touch you just fine.” And to prove her point, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.
He let her at first, but then he pulled away and she had to exert her full Slayer strength to keep him in place.
“No,” he whispered. He’d closed his eyes now. “Leave me alone, Slayer – please!”
For a moment, she almost did what he asked. The pain in his voice was unbearable. But his body didn’t seem to be on the same page as his thoughts because she could feel him growing hard against her and at the same time softening, yielding to her. He wanted her, just like always.
She drew a deep breath. It was time to take her courage in both hands and say what she should have said when she’d first gotten here. Maybe if she backed up her words with actions, he’d believe her this time.
“Spike – please! Look at me.”
When he wouldn’t open his eyes, she took his chin in her hand and shook it gently.
“Look at me!”
At last, his eyelids fluttered open. Blue eyes full of – she wasn’t sure quite what, were staring into hers.
“I love you.” There, the words were out now – out in the open – could never be recalled. She’d kept her eyes on his while she said them, willing him to see the truth.
When he didn’t answer, just stared at her with that drowning expression on his face, she pressed closer.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said, I love you.”
“I heard.” His voice was little more than a whisper but the flatness in his tone sent her heart plummeting into her boots – not that she was wearing boots, but whatever.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?” She could hear an edge of irritation creeping into her voice. What did it take to convince him? “I know you didn’t last time – thought I was just saying what a dying man would want to hear – but you’re wrong, Spike. I did mean it.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes!” In spite of his denial, she could feel his body thrilling to her words – to her touch. “You think I’d come all the way to Hell to save you if I didn’t mean it?”
“Dunno.” He sounded frightened – like she’d rocked his bitter little world. “You might do. Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes, you are.”
“Dummy!” She had her hand under his t-shirt now, sliding the palm over smooth skin and taut muscle – and ribs. She could feel ribs, much too near the surface for her liking. “You’re so thin. Have you been eating? Do you even need to eat here?”
As she spoke, her fingers were worming their way south, undoing his belt buckle in passing and popping the buttons on his fly.
“Oh God!” He had his head thrown back against the wall behind him, eyes closed again. He was trembling faintly all over, like a wire vibrating in the wind, and when her hand closed around his thick cock with that kink in it that she’d always loved, though she’d never told him so, he groaned and bit his lip.
She thought he wouldn’t be able to resist her– that he’d lose it and next moment she’d find herself impaled on him, cool hands cupping her ass, strong fingers digging into her as he braced himself to support her weight.
That didn’t happen, though. Instead, he remained with his back to the crypt wall, arms outstretched like a crucified Christ, fingers gouging into the rough surface as if he was doing all he could not to touch her. Given what they’d been talking about, it was only too obvious why.
“Spike!” She shook him a little. “I won’t have this.”
She tugged on his dick hard enough to hurt and his eyes flew open in shock.
“Oww! Take it easy, Slayer!”
“Well, listen to me then!” She gentled her touch but she didn’t let go. Instead, she began to move backwards and whether he wanted to or not, he had to come with her – literally led by his dick – across the floor of the crypt to the bed and down onto it. He hung above her, supported on his arms, which were trembling uncontrollably, staring down at her in something close to terror. When she leaned up to kiss him again, he groaned and let her, rolling onto his side and then his back and pulling her with him.
Now she found herself looking down at him.
“You can’t want this,” he said. “You just – you can’t.”
“Ah-ah!” She put her finger to his lips again. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t want, Spike. That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?”
He nodded dumbly and she went back to fisting his cock, teasing the silky flesh until she felt it grow moist under her fingers, her eyes on his face all the time. As he grew harder under her touch, his expression became softer, more open, with that wondering look she’d seen so many times when they’d had sex before – as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
“Believe it!” she wished him and when she kissed him again, finally he let go.
There was a moment’s frantic jerking and tugging while they tore at each other’s clothes, at the end of which, he was naked down to the knee, jeans trapped there by his ridiculous boots, while the shirt she wore was torn open at the front and her breast was in his mouth.
He suckled on it until the nipple felt heavy and swollen – almost painful. One hand yanked her panties down, clever fingers strumming her like a well-remembered instrument that needed tuning before it played right.
“Oh God!” Until this moment, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed this – missed his voice telling her how much he loved her – how he adored her. And this time, it didn’t feel dirty or wrong. It didn’t make her want to hurt him – to pay him back just for making her feel alive. It felt more right than anything had in a long time.
In fact, she’d needed this for so long it almost hurt – like if he didn’t fuck her right now she might curl up around the pain of wanting him. She ground her crotch against the heel of his hand. Then she rolled them again so he was on top of her. She’d show him she wasn’t afraid to be under him.
He seemed to divine her thoughts because he hesitated again, the thick head of his cock nudging at her, still unsure of its welcome. She caught his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her.
“I trust you, silly. I thought you got that before. Now I’m asking you to trust me.”
His mouth fell open at her words. He groaned once – her name, she thought – and then he thrust forwards.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/227350.html