Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
The rhythms of her body were like a symphony to him, each pulsation and internal rush a carefully choreographed orchestration. She was slightly pale, her eyes ringed with darkened circles and shining with a barely suppressed pain. It was her monthlies, of course. Her thigh muscles quivered nearly imperceptibly, his attention drawn to the slight movement when Buffy placed her hand against her thigh to brace herself. The thrumming contractions of her body lulled him into a gentle ease as he soaked up the life she gave off in waves.
“Some nasty thing catch a whiff off you, Slayer?” Spike murmured, noting the tattered fabric of her right arm, the thin material frayed and blood-encrusted at the edges. Had he been a lesser demon, the sheer decadence of her life’s blood would have driven him to the kill. As it was, he was painfully hard as his senses were assaulted.
“I don’t have time for this, Spike!” Buffy bit back irritably. “Just get me some bandages or whatever so I can tend to this mess.”
“No need to get cross, luv. I’ll just chalk up the bad mood to you being a bit pink in the sink. Maybe I can scrounge up some Midol while I’m at it.”
Buffy huffed in annoyance as Spike sauntered over to crouch near his fridge, pulling out a milk crate of assorted items. A pack of Marlboros prominently stood out, and he pushed aside some of his smaller weapons to get to the antiseptic, gauze and bandages he had for such occasions.
I cannot believe I even bothered coming here, Buffy groused, placing her palm on the flat of her abdomen, biting back a grimace as a cramp seized her. I should have just tra-la-la-ed back home like a good little Slayer, cleaned this up, maybe made an attempt to spend some time with Dawn…
Her attention wandered to Spike’s television screen, whatever he had been watching switching to a commercial break. Buffy rolled her eyes as the annoying tune of “There She Goes” by Sixpence None the Richer filled the air as joyous young women pirouetted across the screen celebrating their good fortune of monster periods only four times a year thanks to ortho tricyclen.
I really ought to look into that, Buffy thought, wiping her brow and frowning at how her temperature had fluctuated from slightly chilly to sweltering upon entering Spike’s crypt.
“Side effects can include: nausea, vomiting, bleeding between menstrual periods, breast tenderness, weight change, fainting, swelling of the fingers or ankles, and headache.”
On second thought, maybe not…
Circling back around the couch, Spike reached to turn off the TV as he plopped down on the foot-rest in front of where Buffy was perched on the edge of the cushions.
“Care to tell the tale of your midnight misadventure?” Spike said as he glanced up, tearing the dressing he prepared for her wound. Her face shone with a light sheen of sweat. It was a wonder the air wasn’t shimmering around her in an aura of heat with the temperature she was giving off.
Buffy shrugged the filmy ruined top off her shoulders, leaving her donned in a strappy camisole.
“Nothing to tell,” she replied. “I don’t even know what it was or what it wanted, but this…uh, thing, it’s kinda hard to describe.”
Spike dabbed the antiseptic into the deep, oozing gash and handed Buffy an icepack he had grabbed from the fridge. He held it up to her forehead with his other hand as he worked.
“I shudder to think what it must have looked like. Certainly doesn’t smell like lilacs and roses,” Spike murmured, fingering the shredded top on her lap, which gave off an offensive odor.
“It was…I mean, this is gonna sound really weird, but you know that thing on South Park? The thing that’s God? With the hippo mouth, and monkey butt and claws? It kinda looked like that...” Buffy trailed off, biting her lower lip.
Spike looked incredulously at her, an amused smirk playing across his lips.
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!” he guffawed. “That’s what scratched you up?”
“It was really fast!” Buffy complained, flailing her good arm insistently.
“Right…well, did you off it or will I find it laying in wait at my doorstep next time I decide to take a stroll?”
“Yeah, I cut off its head. That usually does the trick, right? I think it’s still out there by the Thompson tomb.”
She shifted uncomfortably as Spike regarded her, the muscles in her lower back protesting as she tried to remain erect.
“With the scent you’re givin’ off tonight, it’s no wonder more than just the locals were gunning for you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not only a happy meal on legs, but a three course dinner buffet. All the blood and sweat and juice leaking out of you would bring any demon sniffing. Bloody stupid for you to have gone traipsing about in your condition.”
“My condition? Oh please,” Buffy snorted, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t be daft. You’re a beacon when you’re stewing in your juices, and you know it. Did the Slayer go out looking for a bit of trouble hoping a big bad would try and take a bite?” Spike mused, his eyes boring into her as he hooked one of his fingers into his beltloops and tugged downward, exposing a thin line of his abdomen and jutting hipbone.
“Get over yourself, Spike. There is no way you and me are doing anything. For exactly that reason.”
His eyes shimmered with mischief.
“Are you sure? Cause I could…” he trailed off, curling his tongue behind his teeth and raising his eyebrow in a patented smirk.
“That’s disgusting. Not when I’m…just, no,” she said, gathering up her shirt and making her way to the door.
Spike stepped in front of her, a silent plea in his eyes.
“I can take it away. All those shimmery little quivers gliding up and down. Calm the raging of that wicked uterus of yours.”
All right, I’ll bite. “And how would you do that?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You just need a bit of R&R, luv. The ugly God-bloke took you down a notch or two when you’re not up to your fightin’ best. Could give you a rub down. Work the kinks out of the muscles that are screamin’ at you.”
Spike was right of course. He knew. He always knew. She still trembled slightly despite her best efforts, the lactic acid in her muscles settling in her back and calves. She could use some relief and there were no drugs in sight. It would take her twenty minutes to walk back home let alone the nearest drugstore.
Buffy glared at Spike suspiciously, but just barely nodded her consent as she moved past him to descend the ladder that led to the lower cavern of his crypt.
Buffy found herself laying facedown on Spike’s bed, the only thing protecting her modesty was a pair of her lavender panties that she had insisted on keeping on.
Just don’t think about naked you or naked Spike or the hands of good that are going to make everything feel better. Just pretend it’s like going to a masseuse for $70 dollars an hour – kind of annoying you have to pay the fee, but ultimately a decent investment for a bit of relief.
Spike reappeared in her line of sight, his cock hard and weeping, but otherwise untouched. He busied himself in a drawer of his bureau, fishing out a bottle of massage oil from its mahogany depths. He turned to face her and she averted her gaze from his straining erection, trying to keep her focus.
“’Is gonna be good, Buffy. Promise. Ever had a good seein’ to before?” he murmured, coming to stand at her side next to the bed.
“Twice,” Buffy admitted, not really wanting to talk. “Back in LA I had an accident during cheerleading tryouts and mom sent me to a message therapist. And there was another time…”
Buffy looked up at Spike who sat quietly, listening to her intently as he flipped the cap open and was about to squirt some of the oil into his palm.
“Less talking, more doing,” she said suddenly, perturbed by Spike’s genuine interest. He wasn’t supposed to be interested in her stupid recollections or her nostalgic musings. He was supposed make catty comments, goad her, touch her inappropriately now that she was, for the most part, laid bare to him. But none of it came.
The lines around Spike’s mouth hardened and his jaw clenched slightly. “Right. Back to business then. Lift your hair off your neck.”
Buffy reached back and pulled her hair forward so that it rested along the sides of her face, splayed out in golden waves. She turned her face to the side, her breath short.
She felt Spike climb onto the bed beside her when it dipped under their combined weight. She couldn’t help but let a small moan slip when he settled himself astride her ass, his balls pressed against her crack, his bent knees cradling her thighs in his own.
“Try to not breathe so shallow, luv. Need the blood to reach all the tissues and get oxygenated. Relax: breathe out slowly.”
Buffy palpably let her shoulders go lax, though the tension still marred her lower back. She let out a deep sigh and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing.
It was then that she felt Spike’s hands at her neck, a bolt of panic spreading through her as she jerked under him. He saw her arm come up from her side, but he shushed her and stilled her wrist.
“Hush, luv. Not gonna hurt you. Just starting from the top down. Get you all loose here before I work on the rest.” He rubbed her shoulders in soothing sweeps of his hands until she relented again and lay still.
His thumbs gently dug into the muscles in her shoulders, stretching them beneath the skin. His thumbs settled at the nap of her neck, sliding along the indentation at the back of her skull, which surprisingly ached under his ministrations. Whenever he pressed there she could feel her pulse in her temples and behind her eyes. With the blood rushing to fill her tissues, and the combined drumming of her womb, her body had never felt so alive to her.
Spike’s fingers moved down to her face, first gently pressing behind her ears and then settling at the junction of her jaw, his fingers fluttering over the muscles in butterfly kisses with enough force to effectively banish the strain, but tender enough not to hurt. Buffy whimpered as the tension she hadn’t known she’d been carrying slowly shifted away from her mouth, which lay open slightly slack, to pool lower down by her shoulder blades. Spike gave chase to the dodgy knots and one by one worked them to nothing, the muscles faltering and releasing as he spent as long a time as was needed to relax them.
When he reached her lower back, Buffy’s muscles jumped and twitched beneath him, and she let out little grunts of pain.
“Ah!” she hissed when Spike’s thumb dug into a particularly tender spot. “There,” she ground out, breathless and panting. Adding another handsome dollop of oil to his hands, he went to work, his head close to her skin and his eyes closed as he listened carefully as her body spoke to him. Between sweeps of his hands, Buffy felt Spike drop gentle barely-there kisses along the length of her spine, her back curling with the sensation.
“Oh god…” she murmured, her breath caught on airy sighs of pleasure. “Ohmm.”
“That’s it, luv. Let Spike make it better,” he whispered as her muscles gave way.
As Spike slithered down her body to access her legs, he peeled her panties off, dipping his tongue into her crack as he went. She let out a needy moan, pressing her ass against him, but he stilled her and nipped one of her cheeks as he sat up between her legs.
“Not there yet, kitten. Still a bit of work to be done at this end,” he admonished as Buffy restlessly squirmed from side to side.
Spike took one of her legs in hand and worked her shapely, bronzed calve muscles, admiring the way they jumped and shivered at his touch. Buffy’s vocalizations picked up as Spike eased the aching stiffness gathered in her muscles.
“Spike…huuu, ohhhhh,” she whispered, and his nose was assaulted by the scent of her deep and dark desire for him.
“What is it, luv? What is it you need?” he questioned.
“Mmmm,” Buffy mumbled. “You... *pant* know…”
“Say it,” Spike coaxed, his hands running up the insides of Buffy’s thighs until he brushed the curls between her legs and her hips jerked upward, her ass thrusting toward him.
“Ohh, there!” she cried out and began to rise from her supine position, only to have a hand steady her and push her against the soft sheets.
“Shhhh,” he murmured, easing her back down. “None of that now. Just lay still. Know what you need.”
With her legs now slightly parted he could clearly smell the overpowering scent of her menstrual blood. His fangs itched to descend and he shook off the flash of gold that appeared in his vision. Shimmying closer, he brushed the edges of her pussy lips and traced the pout of her sex. She was holding a lot of tension here, her muscles taught. Placing thumbs on either side of her, he opened her up for his inspection, noting the string of the tampon that dangled from her opening and the gleaming wet of her desire. Collecting up her slick in his fingers, he spread it liberally about and began to massage her pussy in deep, circular strokes.
Buffy let out a croaking sob, the tension in her buttocks slowly draining as the blood rushed to her crotch. He could hear her heart beating loudly, the sweat beginning to sheen along her back.
“No one’s got so nice a quim as this. All pink and wet,” Spike whispered in awe as he licked his lips. “But she’s hurting, isn’t she Buffy? Gotta have a li’l TLC. Treat her right, calm her down.”
Sliding the tampon out, he held it up to his nose, inspecting the thick coating of blood absorbed by the cotton. It was the first day by the looks of it. He lapped at the cotton, sucking it slightly, growling at the taste. Thick, coppery, nothing like it in the world. It wasn’t often that he got to sample straight from the squirming, quivering font.
“Spread yourself,” he ordered and Buffy compliantly spread her legs wider, harshly panting.
“There’s the heart of you,” he rumbled, reverently sliding two fingers into her channel. “Right deep inside of you. That’s where the normal girl hides, innit? Right here.” He touched the indentation of her cervix. Buffy crooned, arching slightly, squeezing her eyes shut.
Spike slowly and gently extracted his fingers and pushed in further until they were seated all the way back. He rotated them slightly, exerting pressure, keeping them deep inside.
“Oh, there you are my girl,” Spike soothed as Buffy let out a ragged moan, equally gut-wrenching as it was pleasure-filled.
“Is this where she is? The bubble gum of your youth, those LA days? Deep inside, spilling out of you in table spoons of crimson? Is this who you cling to, Buffy?” His pressing became more insistent.
“Oh God, oh, God!” Buffy panted, her inner walls quivering and fluttering around his fingers.
“If you could fight nasties with that cunny of yours you would, wouldn’t you? Strangle the blighters ‘til they popped. But this is guarded,” Spike murmured, his voice syrupy and dark, as he pressed his fingers firmly against her upper wall and wriggled them back and forth. “Never let Captain Cardboard in here, I wager.”
She could feel it of course, where the contractions of expelling her lining and the contractions of her orgasm met. They crested at the pads of Spike’s fingers, sending out rippling waves of warmth that suffused her whole groin. “Oh, ooooooh” she mewled, the orgasm rolling through her with such a tender force as her body helplessly shook in a paroxysm of pleasure. Tears spilled from the corners of her tightly closed eyes, a gentle sob falling from her lips. In truth, she had never felt anything like this before, no one had ever touched her so deeply, gotten to the heart of her, accepted everything she and her body had to give. She stiffened suddenly with the knowledge of her vulnerability.
Spike felt the shift in her muscles and immediately flipped her over to bring his mouth down on her clit. She jackknifed up again, her thighs resting on his shoulders and she hissed.
“And that’s where the Slayer lives. In that thrumming, temptress of a clit of yours. In the walls of your cunny, in the bite of your nails, in the power of your fists,” he murmured. She tried to fight him off, but Spike used his leverage to pin her down, eyes boring into her panicked, angry ones.
“Get the fuck off me…” Buffy growled, but he silenced her with a sharp thrust, sliding all the way in to the hilt and set a breaking pace so that all Buffy could do was cling to him.
“Oh no you don’t. You don’t hide from me. Don’t cover that girl over in fists and violence. Let yourself feel it, Buffy. Let yourself...” He reached for her hand and pinned it down.
He churned his hips hard against hers and she wailed, fighting the pain of her body, the pain of his words, the pain of the invasion. No one had ever been this deep.
He gnawed at her nipples then and settled his fingers over her clit, circling it rapidly in even strokes.
“You want heaven, Buffy? Come and get it.” He twisted his fingers and she cried nonsense.
His climax was swift as he came harshly but roughly pulled out, clamping his mouth down on her sex even as she rode out her orgasm, her juices bubbling out of her. Spike lapped at her hungrily, drinking all the pain down of her lost adolescence. He could taste the thrill of womanhood in her blood, revel in the strength that came with it. But among the nuanced flavors was her youthful dismay at what it meant: the fear and pain that came along with maturity, the downfall of her so called normal life. Yes, this was where the heart of the girl-turned-slayer lay, crouched among the rippling walls of her sex, swirling in the hormonal concoction of her womb. Death was her gift, but life was her art. The hope for her future, of her normal life, thrived inside her in colorful bursts. Dreams of babies, a husband, a white picket fence struggled against her death wish and cried out in despair at the cold deathly stillness of her heart. It was her siren’s call and all Spike could do was answer the whimpering girl left in a stasis at the heart of her.
He drank her greedily and wormed his fingers back into her, keeping her coming, keeping her wailing, until she begged in the tiniest of voices “no, no” struggling against him, her eyes gleaming with some internal conflict, already on the loosing end of the battle. She struggled harder, scrambling against defeat.
“Stop, don’t do this. Please don’t do this!” she moaned, fighting some inner demon, though she addressed Spike. Her insistent thrashings slowed as he gentled his pace, massaging her walls in deep relaxing strokes. He eyed her intently.
“Oh mom, mommy…” she whimpered unexpectedly and her voice shattered into broken sobs of torture. Spike rapidly crawled up her body, cradling the quivering mess of hormones and blood and saliva and snot and tears and life in his arms. His perfection, his salvation. Her heart rattled and he felt the vibrating calm of her uterus as the beast within, the slayer, her pain, licked its wounds and soothed itself.
She went still, lost in a haze of memories past. Of chicken soup and kindly smiles, of heating pads on her stomach, and the loving warm eyes of Joyce Summers. The sense memories stirred within her, causing the acute anxiety and pain she kept locked and strapped down to struggle for purchase. Her body buzzed with all of its processes, while her heart clamored for peace.
“I want to go home,” Buffy whispered, quivering still against Spike and she barely recognized her own voice or what the request could possibly mean. She wanted to go back to those days of cheerleading and sly stolen kisses, before she hunted monsters and then became one. Before her body, an instrument of life, was turned to an instrument of death. The girl inside her wandered aimlessly, futilely reaching her hand out to the stolen paradise she had been ripped from, tentatively trying to find her voice, clinging to the man that touched her. His hands and mouth, knowing eyes and sinful tongue, they spoke to her as she darted about the internal cage of her calling.
The war raged behind Buffy’s wide, stricken eyes, and Spike knew that at last, he had touched a piece of her unadulterated self. The self that she both yearned for and fought so hard to keep protected. Something that she could call her own and retreat to at the end of the night after she shed her tears of self pity and anger at her friends, raged over her nature, and guiltily contemplated her wrongness. This was the silent world she fled to when she crawled into bed to hug Mr. Gordo, reliving the pre-Slayer thrill of ice skating, the joy of twirling in circles as Joyce plucked her from the merry-go-round at Griffith Park.
Do you trust me?
Never, she had said. But she was unraveled before his very eyes. He saw her now, had always known her, but had never come face to face with this stripped down girl.
Spike made to answer her plea for home, cuddling her closer to him, but she drew up a shaking hand and slowly shook her head.
“Please…just, don’t. I can’t – Spike, god, it hurts,” she managed to murmur.
What have I become? she thought.
“I know, luv. I know where you live, seen it, tasted it. The girl – in here - ” he whispered, placing his hand over her breast. “ - she’s safe with me. I won’t give her away.”
Spike pushed her onto her back again, drawing the sheets up around her waist, covering her breasts, pooling the cloth at her cheek.
“Just lay back and remember her, Buffy. Lay back and let yourself feel it. Be there.” And he drew the bottom half of the sheet up, exposing her to his gaze again. Placing his palm on her belly, he moved his hand in short firm circles and closed his eyes. Her womb hummed and loosened, letting flow a steady stream of blood, bringing with it Elizabeth Anne Summers. Spike knelt between her thighs, lapping up the girl, taking her into himself, making her a part of him, separate but not alone in the world.
Buffy’s eyes were closed again, her breathing deepening as she drifted for the first time in months to a time long gone, mottled with people and friends that populated her world up to two lifetimes ago. Even if it was for just this night, at last, she could rest.