Huge thanks to Eowyn315 for her comprehensive beta work and detailed suggestions. Without her, my grammar would not be pretty.
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.
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Buffy starts to follow Willow out, but stops. She leans one hand against the island, watches Willow go. Then she turns to Spike with a resigned expression.
BUFFY: You. Making up excuses. (goes back to the sink)
SPIKE: Oh, don't flatter yourself, luv. (walking toward her) Bloody fond of that lighter.
BUFFY: Stop trying to see me. And stop calling me that.
SPIKE: (walks over to her) So, um ... what should I call you then? Pet? Sweetheart? My, uh ...little goldilocks?
SPIKE: You know I love this hair. The way it bounces around when you-
Buffy suddenly lifts her hand out of the sink, holding a spatula on trajectory toward Spike's face, but he grabs her wrist and stops it.
SPIKE: Ah-ah-ah! This flapjack's not ready to be flipped.
“What the hell is that supposed to - ” Buffy bit back irritably, but the coarse, burning sensation created by Spike’s palm rubbing against her clit through her jeans gave her pause, and the retort faltered to a sigh of pleasure.
Glancing downward, Spike watched Buffy part her legs slightly to give him better access, even as she uttered the quiet warning. This was the only game Buffy knew how to play, and it seemed that she was starting the round. Meeting her eyes again, a smile teased Spike’s lips as he pressed harder into her cleft and watched her mouth drop open and eyes flutter shut. Stoking the fire in her was hardly any challenge. She was practically gagging for it as it was. It was getting her to ask for it, talk to him, let him in that took finesse and care. With his arm jerking back and forth, Buffy gasped and gripped his shoulder tightly with her left hand. Later, he would find tiny fingernail indentations in the soft leather where she had clutched him.
“Gonna give it up to me, Slayer? I know you’re achin’ for a morning quickie to see you through the day,” Spike teased as he rubbed her clit harshly, pressing the seam of her jeans against her crotch in a delicious friction. Flinching, Buffy looked up at him, slightly breathless.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve, Spike,” she ground out against him, her hips writhing in counterpoint to his caresses.
“That a fact? Doesn’t look like you’re giving me much of a struggle,” he said, bringing his face within inches of hers as his hand slid down the front of her jeans and into her panties.
Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but Spike cut her off before she could say anything.
“Red’s upstairs, lying down. She’ll be none the wiser.”
Buffy gave him a small shove, but Spike moved with her, his hands in her pants still.
“I have to get Dawn ready -”
“Bit’s putting her face on and fussing over what to wear. Can hear her padding about. Let me give you the best thirty seconds of your life, baby.”
Buffy gripped Spike’s wrist hard to still his movements. “What the hell does it take for you to hear the word “no,” Spike?”
“For you to start actually saying it!”
She yanked his hands out of her pants and pushed him to the side. Turning to the refrigerator, she gathered items to prepare Dawn’s lunch and placed them on the island.
“I have things to do here, none of which include dealing with you.”
“Coulda fooled me, the way you spread your legs back there. Never figured you for the domestic type. The only ones I knew to pull up their skirts were the kitchen maids.”
Buffy whirled to look at him, her eyes shooting daggers.
“You’re disgusting. Everything about you is wrong and perverse. I don’t even know how I live with myself after we -”
Striding forward, Spike clasped her shoulder in warning. “The time to stop talking is now, Slayer.”
But Buffy’s harsh remarks came quicker and faster, her verbal assault a wrecking ball to his tenuous grip on his patience. She used his tattered ego as her grindstone, sharpening her retorts on the anger and pain that flashed across his features with every syllable.
“I hate you,” she ground out, venom flying from her forked, poisonous tongue. And all control snapped. He wouldn’t be belittled by the likes of her. He was done with that.
Spinning her around harshly, he twisted her arm behind her back and slammed her against the counter so that her torso laid pressed flat on the countertop and her ass was thrust outward in the air. Beyond surprised, she surged upward and struggled, but he pinned her hips against the island with his own, pressing his cock hard against the indentation between the cheeks of her ass. He jerked at her zipper, the teeth catching and snagging at his fingers as he roughly yanked her jeans down her thighs.
“Ought to think a bit who you’re talking to before you spout off.” His hand roamed across the expanse of one cheek as he took a handful of her hair and fisted it in his other hand.
“Spike! So help me God, I’m going to -”
A stinging pain seized her where Spike’s hand came down on her ass. She cried in surprise and shock when he held her down by the scruff of her neck.
“Gotta learn some goddamn manners, Slayer, you insolent chit.”
Indignation flushed bright across Buffy’s cheeks. She couldn’t believe he was doing this. That she was letting him.
“Know what you’re thinking. Don’t want it,” he murmured, pulling at her thong and slipping his hand in to glide down her slick entrance.
“Might be able to lie to yourself, but you sure as fuck can’t lie to me.”
His grip tightened painfully on her neck as he pushed his thumb into her. She felt the scrape of his nail as it grazed her, the upward pressure, the liquid rush of need. She felt it all, a slave to the sensation that seemed deadened and dormant until his hands were on her.
Though he had released his hold on her, Buffy stood stock still when his palm came down all the harder on her cheek. He had her attention. She gasped and squirmed with every impact. He worked her cunt in punishing strokes as he alternated his brutal slapping from one cheek to the other. She was fucking him back in earnest now. Driving her ass back to recapture his thumb, while simultaneously returning to the sharp, hot pain of his spanks. Her breathing was ragged and she cried out in frustration when he yanked his thumb out of her. Her ass was red and burning as she turned to look at him over her shoulder with an expression of hateful desperation.
“Don’t want me to stop, then?”
She made some inelegant moan in her throat and glared at him. “Shut up and keep doing it.”
Spike took a step away from her and regarded her for a moment. “Am I still just convenient to you?”
Buffy picked up on the tremor of insecurity, his need for validation and her approval. But she wouldn’t give him those things, didn’t want him doting and sweet. She wanted the fire and anger, wanted him to feel it too, so she wasn’t alone in her pain. He felt with every part of himself and each emotion was a living thing reflected on his features. His capacity to feel so fully was something she had always secretly admired. She strove to harness that feeling now, create a direct circuit from the words on her lips to the feel of his hands on her flesh. Only he could ignite the residual sparks of feeling that still remained in her after her resurrection.
She tipped her head back to look at him and smiled cruelly.
“You’ll always be a loser, Spike. The convenience is just an added benefit. It probably explains why Drusilla left you. Even that crazy ho saw you were just a play-thing. Something to use and discard when -”
In a flash, Spike grabbed her and snatched up the metal spatula that she had brandished at him earlier, bringing it down heavily on her ass in a rapid succession of blows that stole her breath. He hit her unrelentingly, again and again, leaving her no time to regroup. With his hand, at least, there had been something comforting about the blows, but the cold, angular metal struck her with an impersonal thwack like some piece of meat he was tenderizing. He called her a cunt, a bitch, a manipulative cow, told her that he would roger her on her front porch for all of them to see what a dirty little tart she was.Hot, silent tears stung her eyes as she writhed beneath him, trying to escape, but soaking it in all the same. She never asked him to stop. She took every barbed insult, absorbing them with eager relish and claiming the harsh phrases as her own. She was all those things and more. He gave voice to her living shame and named her for what she was - an imposter, something sick and wrong and tainted. She could always count on him for honesty.
“Want to know what it feels like to be a bloody thing, Slayer? Here’s a personal taste.” He grabbed her hair up in his fist again and arched her neck back so that she was bowed beneath him. She cried in earnest now, in deep heaving sobs, some terrible dam in her breeched by the intimate pain. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, the spanking came to an abrupt halt. She rocked back, her body swaying with the rhythm of the blows. She whimpered still, her skin on fire as she stood bare-assed, splayed across the counter. Spike gave her one more slap with his palm and then thrust two fingers into her sopping entrance.
“Cum,” he growled, and she exploded into a dizzying orgasm that threatened to steal her consciousness. Dark spots swam in her vision as her pussy convulsed with a ferocious intensity. She let out a scream, but Spike clamped his hand over her mouth as he worked her, tears and snot running into his hand as she snuffled into it and groaned. Her hips snapped and shook with the spasms like a live wire.
Spike ground his erection against her ass. The scratch of the denim where it bunched at his thighs abraded her flaming, raw skin with an itchy pain. She heard a wet, slapping sound as the aftershocks shook her and suddenly felt hot jizz land along her ass crack and drip down between her thighs as Spike came on her. He barely made a sound behind her, just a slight grunt. She sank limply against the counter, her cheek on the cool surface, her eyes tortured and bewildered.
After a moment of quiet, she felt Spike’s hands come up gently to stroke her hip and smooth down her long hair against her shoulders and back. Her skin was sensitive, and against her will she arched into his touch like a cat starved for attention.
“Seems you need to be taken in hand now and again,” Spike said, the anger that had been there replaced with a sort of pity that made her want to shake him off. “That what you’re after, then? To have the bad beaten out of you?” He tapped her ass lightly and scratched down the surface of her skin so she shuddered, leaving wet smears of his cum in his wake.
Spike turned her around so she faced him. Her eyes reflected her dismay and hostility, defeatist resignation underlying it all. Her mouth twitched as though she couldn’t decide what expression she wanted to settle on. Spike wiped the tears away from her eyes, but she jerked away from his touch and turned back to stare at the countertop in silent contemplation.
He caressed her arms again and tilted her chin up so she looked at him. “Was good though, wasn’t it?’
She batted his hand away, her eyes avoiding his. “Doesn’t matter,” she murmured. “I have to finish making Dawn’s lunch and wash the dishes or they’re going to -”
“Buffy…just stop. Sit.” He guided her to one of the stools alongside the island closest to the refrigerator. She moved on autopilot without a fight. When she settled onto the smooth surface of the stool, she gritted her teeth at the sore sting that spread across her buttocks.
He watched her struggle for a moment. “Make the sandwich,” he said at last, and dropped down to crouch between her knees, below the line of sight of the counter. He spread her legs apart, pressed kisses up her thighs, and pushed aside the soaked slip of fabric covering her.
Buffy looked down at the counter, the fixings for Dawn’s sandwich scattered across the top. The rye bread and turkey sat on a piece of tin foil, alongside it a small cutting board, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise and mustard. Buffy picked up the knife at the table and looked at it for a long moment until she grasped the tomato and cut into the soft red flesh while Spike lapped at her easily. Her cut was sloppy, and pulpy flesh oozed onto her hands as she stacked the messy slices onto the sandwich and tore at the leaves of iceberg. When she picked up the mustard and squeezed it onto the bread, he drew her to the edge of the stool and brought her off with a gentle, rippling ease. Abandoning the sandwich, now complete save for the mayonnaise, she held his head to her and rolled her hips against his face as he tended to her, fresh tears slithering erratically down her face and into her hair.
She hated him, hated herself. Hated this hell. Even as her cunt demanded more, pleaded for his eager attentions, she pressed her nails into the palms of her hands, breaking the skin and leaving thin, frayed tears. She eyed the knife on the countertop. It would be so easy to drive it into his throat, into her own. But the pleasure that swirled in her groin was her ballast, making her forget, keeping her concentration away from the morbid place she languished in on a daily, hourly, minute by minute, second by second basis. She drew her head back and stared down at the top of Spike’s bleached head, nuzzling the shadow between her legs, which were spread wide and draped over his shoulders. She felt a finger probing at her ass and she arched into it, letting him fill every orifice, get inside. When he was there, there was nothing else. No other hurts except the ones he inflicted. And they were the best kind. Ones made just for her, tailored to her liking, so she would forget and know only him.
She got off on the pain, needed it. He understood that and did it for her, became the sort of lover, demon, beast she needed. He hated her for it. Making him a thing, her fuck toy, her silent indiscretion. If this was all he had then he would invade her in every way he could think of until there was nothing left but him. He wanted to be good for her, love her, but she spurned it. That was never what she needed. Riley had been kicked to the curb, Angel set on the pedestal. She needed the pain that men caused her. Only, she used to need it to do her job; now, she needed it to live. He had watched her disintegrate before his eyes just as surely as the abandoned house had fallen in around them, a piece of her becoming lost to him every time he took her, every time she wailed his name but refused to look him in the eye. She was lost, drowning, and all he could do was ground her with the stinging pain or ecstatic pleasure, whatever her fancy was that moment. That’s what it took to make her listen, to see him.
Licking her out ducked below her kitchen counter, crouched in the sanctuary of domesticity – her home, her mother’s home, the home she shared with her sister – made it all the more perverse. To take her here like this, when all he wanted to do was have her in her bed. Be a proper man to her, not some servant, lapdog, muff-diving vampire call boy communing with the cooing of her clit and cunt. If he couldn’t love her, he would love her pussy, which was always wet and eager and honest. She wouldn’t lie, whispering her needs and truths to him. Buffy’s biting ambivalence and harsh words couldn’t reach the juncture of her thighs; that was all for him. She could call any man’s name in bed she liked, but her weeping cunny knew only one name; his alone. He punished himself by loving her; she punished herself by denying him. What a matched set they were, caught up respectively in wanton, obsessive infatuation and repressed, neglectful avoidance. Despair sprang along the blinds of the kitchen door, desperate for the sun, wanting to escape the darkness that they wallowed in together.
Dawn took the stairs two at a time, her bookbag bouncing on her shoulder and jostling her fractured arm. She was going to be late. Again. With any luck, Xander had already arrived and was parked alongside the curb out front. Hopefully, he wasn’t listening to Derek & Clive again. Those guys were beyond lame.
“Buffy! I’m leaving!” Dawn called from the stairs.
Buffy jerked upward on her stool and put a hand over Spike’s mouth beneath the counter.
Dawn hurriedly strode to the kitchen, putting on her best scowl. Eyeing Buffy with contempt, she stopped abruptly at the doorway, her angry façade dropping a hair when she took in the tear tracks on Buffy’s cheeks, her rumpled hair, smeared eyeliner. She had been crying. Dawn never saw her cry. Never saw her do much of anything since she’d come back except ignore her in that eerie silent way as she glided through the house in a daze.
“Buffy? What’s wrong?” Dawn asked hesitantly. She was frightened to see her sister like this.
“I…” Buffy looked at Dawn’s face, which was full of subdued alarm. “I’ll be right there. Wait by the door. I’m just…finishing your lunch,” she said, motioning to the sandwich in front of her. Dawn hesitated for a moment, but nodded and retreated from the kitchen to wait in the living room. It looked like the other shoe had just dropped.
Buffy sat for a moment, lost in thought until she felt Spike shuffle beneath her and start to draw her jeans up her legs. She rose to her feet mechanically and watched as he did up her pants. She grimaced when she felt the tight denim trap his semen inside with her. When their eyes met, she could see that all of the anger was gone from his. Looking at her now, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy. Her dead eyes were sullen. He could see her crawling into herself, fleeing this world of responsibility for the clamoring halls of her tortured mind, where at least she could face each horror one at a time, on her own terms, according to her own schedule. Her eyes begged him for some silent understanding, and he answered with heartfelt compassion.
I hate this, I hate us. I need this, I need you. I’m dying inside, but you’re already dead. Tell me how to do it. How can I live?
“You should go,” she said, turning from him and gathering up the sandwich, slipping it into a zip-lock baggie. She grabbed a paper bag and dropped the sandwich in along with an apple and fruit punch flavored Capri-Sun that had been on sale at Costco. She hated food shopping. He watched her from his post against the refrigerator as she turned her back and walked toward the living room with the food in her hands. “I have things to do.”
Yeah, thought Spike. Like going off the bloody deep end. He leaned back and closed his eyes, running his hands over his face. They couldn’t keep coming together like this and survive. They were drowning in each other, sometimes clinging, other times pushing the other’s head under water. They sure as hell weren’t swimming toward the surface. Listening to the hushed voices in the living room, Spike resolutely decided that if they were to go on, things had to change, starting now.