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S p i k e / B u f f y . F a n f i c t i o n . b y .K J .D r a f t
TITLE: What She Needs AUTHOR: KJ (Katherine Jay) Draft SUMMARY: S/B. PWP. A wee bit angsty. Spike tries to make Buffy jealous at the Bronze. It works. There's also some "ice on the back of her neck" action. (She likes that, you know.) TIMELINE: Written Spring of 2002, this story takes place between "Older and Far Away" and "As You Were." RATING: NC-17 DISTRIBUTION: Feel free to link, just give me credit. It'd also be cool to let me know where. Thanks. FEEDBACK: Ice Me: quietones33@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER:
Joss Whedon owns them all, and he might blush if he saw what I made
them do. Actually, I am also blushing right now.
WHAT
SHE NEEDS
Just need twenty minutes away, then I'll patrol. From his vantage point overlooking the stage, Spike senses her presence and locates her immediately at the entrance to the club. She looks devastating as usual, slim leather pants wrapped around sinewy muscles and delicate strappy top tickling her collarbone; her typical costume for slaying and shagging. If he's lucky. If he's very, very lucky. He thinks about swooping down and buying her a drink, then reconsiders. Kindness always backfires. The only emotion to penetrate her fog is anger. You have to push her fast and strong 'til she pops and allows rage to focus her attention into a laser fine point. So that is how we'll play the game. He contemplates
the selection of sweet young things milling about on the floor below.
Then a not so sweet one catches his eye and he grins. She'll do right
nicely. His leather clad arm rests possessively above her head. They're standing in the same place we kissed after Willow's spell wore off, Buffy acknowledges bitterly. The bimbo giggles, then licks her bottom lip, her eyes drifting downward. She's clearly enjoying the hell out of Spike's flirtations. Is it the accent? What the fuck could he possibly be saying to make her react that way? *And why doesn't he say that kind of stuff to me?* He probably would, she realizes, if I gave him half a chance. She sighs, annoyed by the traitorous direction of her thoughts. Whatever. Who cares. Screw it. A bar tender emerges and marches briskly past her. Buffy effortlessly slips her finger through one of his belt loops and yanks him back. Startled by the velocity of the slender finger as well as the apparent strength of the petite young woman it belongs to, he stutters, "Uh, can I help you?" "Vodka shot," she orders, her eyes fixed on Spike. Her expression is one of deep loathing. The bar tender follows her gaze. "He's not worth it," he offers. "Believe me, I know," she snaps back, finally wrenching her eyes from Spike and leveling them directly at the bar tender. Now her expression is one of expectant impatience, so he hastens nervously behind the bar to fill her request. Girl on a mission. Spike takes the hand of his companion and they glide onto the dance floor. Buffy senses rather than sees this out of the corner of her eye. She's vaguely aware of her toes tapping the floor and a muscle in her cheek twitching. You don't care. You don't care. It doesn't matter, because you don't care. Her drink arrives. The bar tender sets it hesitantly before her. Probably afraid to ask for payment. For some reason this amuses her. "Anything else, miss?" On the dance floor, amidst the sea of faces and gyrating couples, Spike and his conquest disappear and reappear from view. A moment later, Buffy zeroes in on them, just in time to see Spike's hand slide down the female vampire's body and rest on her ass. He leans in and nuzzles her neck -- That's enough. Buffy's eyes narrow. She pulls out some cash from her pocket, the last of Giles' gift. Brings her closed fist half way across the bar. "I need you to do me a favor," she remarks quietly. "And why would I do that?" the bar tender asks, regaining his confidence. "Here's why." She presses the twenty dollar bill intimately into his hand. He doesn't look at it, keeps his eyes steady with hers. "The blonde guy in the long black coat -- " "Right, the one you were watching." She's annoyed. "Yeah. I need you to give him something for me. Got a pen?" He hands one to her. She uses it to scribble briefly on a napkin then folds the completed note into his hand as well. He moves around the other side of the bar, slowly walking toward the dance floor. Buffy discreetly reaches into her boot and pulls out a long, thin arrow. It's about the size of a chopstick. Xander was particularly proud of its design, and, she figures, no time like the present to try it out. Around her waist, tied at her hip, rests a small bottle of holy water. She likes to think of it as a deadly, infinitely more stylish fanny pack. She dips the tip of the arrow into the vial, like a feather quill in a bottle of ink. Shifts it around. The movement is slow, deliberate and artistic. Buffy cocks her wrist back, squints and takes aim. Spike's back is toward Buffy now. Perfect. The bar tender looks questioningly at Buffy, who nods, a slight jut of her chin. He slips the folded napkin into Spike's hand as they continue to sway. Buffy's wrist flicks forward with the jerk and power of a pistol, and the arrow slices through the air, traveling the entire length of the Bronze, one end to the other at lightening speed. Behind his "date's" back, Spike rapidly unfolds the note and reads: "Get Down." Without hesitation, he drops to one knee, fingertips grazing the floor. "The Bimbo's" eyes flick down at him, confused. A split second later, the arrow zips over Spike's head and pierces her heart. She doesn't have time to register the horror. A fireball bursts out, centered at her chest. This is followed by a tormented, gasping shriek, then an explosion of dust. Spike winces slightly as the remains of his dancing partner rain down on him and he's coated in filmy decay. Nice shot, Slayer. The music stops abruptly. There's silence. Then panic, and screams. The desperate stampede toward the exit nearly crushes Spike. He fights to his feet and forges his own path in the opposite direction, shoving people as brutally out of the way as the chip allows. There's no reason for him to run. He knows exactly who is responsible. He flattens himself against the wall, lights a cigarette and waits. The bar empties rapidly, and as the feeling of chaos disperses with the patrons, he scans the room and sees Buffy out of the corner of his eye. She sits on top of the bar, at the opposite end of the room. Through the fine haze of smoke, he watches her swing her legs back and forth, almost child-like, her heels tapping rhythmically against the wood. They stare at each other, heat searing between them as the last group of people stumble, petrified, out the door. When they're completely alone, Spike leaves his post, tosses his cig to the floor and kills it with his heel. Slowly approaches the bar, never taking his eyes off her. He feels a spasm of anger that she won't meet him half way. Bloody symbolic, that is. Knows she can sit back, and I'll always come to her, crawling on my sodding hands and knees if I have to. With each step, his fury increases. But his hatred is directed mostly at himself, for wanting her so much. He imagines grabbing her around the waist, throwing her to the floor and fucking her to death. She waits until he's a few feet away, then hops down from the bar. As usual, his violent fantasies disappear the moment he enters her immediate vicinity. In fact, now he feels powerless to instigate anything resembling a confrontation. Instead, he reaches pale, dusty fingers out, and caresses her silky hair. Lightly skims his hands up and down her bare arms. "Want to tell me what that was about?" he murmurs in low tones. "Maybe I wanted to talk to you alone," she answers casually. He's intrigued. She cleared the place out just for me? He waits, eyes shining. Splendid moment, this. Absolutely glorious. Questions whip through his brain, unhampered: Will she finally admit she has feelings for him, needs? Some previously unimagined ache that only he can fill? A snippet of a former conversation drums through his head. Not love. Not yet... Just before his mind gets carried away in endless, pleasant speculation, Buffy's real voice, mocking and bright, cuts through his reverie: "Or maybe I just wanted you to stop dancing." Oh. No talking, then? The disappointment is palpable on his face, but just for a second. She's jealous! "You're looking a little green tonight, Luv." He leans in close and props his arms on either side of her, effectively fencing her in. She shifts under his nearness and the intensity of his gaze. "I
was doing everyone a favor," she continues breezily; petulant.
"You're a terrible dancer. Embarrassing, actually." She trembles, releasing a small cry of inarticulate desire, and melts into his embrace, relieved he's provided her with her favorite form of avoidance. You're mine, Spike. I might hate you, but you're still mine. No one else's. She knows she can make him forget the fact that they don't talk. She knows she can make him forget how depressed they both are, at least for a while. At least until I get what I want. A part of her knows her behavior is unfair. Cruel, even. (What about his needs?) But no matter how miserable Spike may feel about the current situation, she knows he prefers it to nothing at all. It's his own fault, really. She deepens the kiss, wraps one of her legs around his hip, and angles him closer. Moans, then adds a breathy little gasp. "Mmmmm." She knows it drives him crazy when she makes noises. The sound of her own arousal serves to turn her on further, as well. Their tongues tangle, fighting. Spike braces one strong, steady arm against the bar. With his other hand he cups her face. Buffy pictures him dancing and flirting with people who aren't her. Tugs his shirt from his jeans and viciously rakes her nails down his back. That'll teach him. His body twitches. Ow! She really is pissed. Always makes for a good fuck. She shoves his jacket half way down his body, pinning it there, never breaking the desperate contact of her lips and tongue with his, then scrapes her nails harshly across the exposed part of his upper arms, leaving thin, raised trails there are as well. But she
knows the welts and strips of red will eventually heal. He always
heals. Maybe that's why I keep coming back, she concludes ruefully. To accomplish that... He rips his mouth from hers. She pants heavily, chest rising. Opens her eyes, frustrated. "How'd you know I would duck in time?" he asks. His roving fingers pause, tensely digging into her tender, pliant flesh. "I didn't," Buffy tells him, dragging her fingers through his hair until her hands meet at the back of his head. She clutches him and forces his lips back to hers. Spike lets out a strangled whimper. My beautiful killing machine. Deadly, Precise. Vindictive. And, he thinks, with pure satisfaction, jealous as all hell. The fact that he could have suffered some right hideous holy water burns, or even died in her envy fueled attack, simply makes him love her more. And want her more. He slips his arms around her waist and pushes his body tightly against hers. She moans without thought, a nice, slow exhalation. Throws her head back, eyes closed, wet lips parted, throat open and vulnerable. He can see her creamy skin rise rhythmically as her pulse quickens. He buries his face there, his tongue barely slipping out to moisten the spot where the fluttering throb beats its hypnotic tempo. She smells a little different tonight. A delirium inducing combination of scents: Vanilla and musk, a hint of smoke and vodka, and something he can't quite place: cookies? He wishes he could share the rhythm inside her, the powerful pulsing in her veins. Wishes he could breathe her entire body in. He'll have to settle for robbing her of air. To that end he works his mouth back up her neck, sucking on her chin, across her cheekbone, dipping his cool, wet tongue in and out of her ear. She likes that; her hips rock against him and she holds onto his shoulders to keep from buckling over. Spike nips her briefly then attacks her mouth. He kisses her vigorously, teases her with lips and tongue, then pulls away and approaches from a new direction, deepening his advances. Seconds pass, then minutes, then time becomes something altogether impossible to determine. She groans and grips the leather of his coat with her fingernails, creating tiny, half moon indentations. They'll fade in time, just as the scars on his body will. She feels tension radiate off his frame, his muscles barely resisting the urge to lift her onto the bar and tear her clothes off. A hot, wet emptiness forms between her legs. Only one thing to fill it. She bucks lightly against his thigh, trying to rub the need away, smooth the hollow out and pave it over, but still he keeps his mouth on hers, holding her slightly back. She starts to panic. Usually they move rapidly to other activities, pushing and pulling each other as fast as possible toward the same forced release. To Buffy, kissing seems more intimate than sex. Its something you do with a proper, steady boyfriend during real dates. (It's something you do with Riley.) In her mind there's no place for it with Spike. Kissing him is a brief luxury she allows herself in the name of adequate foreplay. It's not a requirement for sex. But now she's falling, unraveling, spinning out toward an unfamiliar abyss under the pleasurable damage of his mouth. She quivers with longing, but the longing has little to do with her body. Not good. A halting, half sob escapes her lips: "Oh, God." Buffy places her hands firmly on Spike's chest and shoves him away, gasping for air. He's confused, then understanding slowly dawns on him. Good going, mate, now she doesn't want to play. She smoothes her clothes out systematically, tries to control her breathing and halt the flush on her cheeks from traveling further up her face. Touches her lips with the back of her hand. They're fuller than she remembers them... vibrating... numb with need. She drops her hand like it's on fire, then fidgets idly, refusing to look at him. Her posture screams at him to stay back. "Buffy... " he pleads, then lets her name hang in the air, unsure how to proceed. There's nothing I can do to make her stay. He tries to communicate with his eyes, ask her to open up to him just this once... She despises his ability to look through her. Forces herself to disregard the guilt unfurling in her gut. Struggles to maintain an indifferent air and ignore his sadness. "Just -- don't..." she chokes out, tears shimmering in her eyes. She gazes at the exit, her mind already out the door. Pivots on her heel, leaving him alone in the vacant, silent club. He doesn't go after her, just tilts his head and watches her walk away. When she's gone from view, the padding of her footsteps provides him a weak, tenuous connection to her, but soon that too is lost to him. He lifts his hands to his face, covers his eyes and sighs, contemplating her latest abrupt departure. Then he opens his eyes, and stares into the empty space she used to occupy. The painful throbbing of his dick, pressed tightly between his stomach and jeans, resembles nothing less than a grotesque mockery of a beating heart. Bloody Goddamn Cocktease Frigid Bitch, he thinks, but there's no malice behind the words. He doesn't even believe his own insults anymore. Did she feel too much, or not enough? What caused the guilt this time? The pain on her face dominates the despair filling his throat. He vaults over the bar and selects a bottle off the shelf behind him, uncaps it. Doesn't matter what it is. Just get it down. Errant drops spill onto his chest. Fuck. He coughs a few times, then grabs a fresh bottle and scans the label. Hurls it at the wall, doesn't even watch it shatter. Grabs a different bottle, gives that a go. Pretends it kills the pain. The room starts to spin. He latches onto the bar with a hand to steady himself. One more for the road. Gulps back some more, draining it, and wipes his mouth. A small grin slips onto his lips, sloppy and bitter. Each time she runs off is a knife in the gut. Twisting, deep and knotted. He has half a mind to dash now, take off after her, drunken state be damned. He'll track her down right away, she can't have gone far... and then what? Spout some pathetic ramble and get shut down again? Bugger that. Ten minutes later, he slinks inside his crypt, slumps into his easy chair and turns on the telly. The copious amounts of alcohol he's ingested haven't erased the taste of her in his mouth. He licks his lips, sliding his tongue over them continuously, hoping to cover her up. It doesn't work. Closes his eyes and glides his fingertips smoothly down his chest, depressed and horny as hell. Back where I started before this train wreck began. Sitting alone in the dark, tugging at myself 'til I go cross eyed. Things should be different by now. Why isn't anything different?! He doesn't bother fantasizing that this is anything other than his own hand, anything other than a desperate attempt at brutally ridding himself of Buffy's power over him. Likewise, there's nothing satisfying about his orgasm. Just another mess to clean up. He wishes he could shake Buffy until her bones rattled, knock her brain around in her skull, make her see... make her understand what she's doing to him. Make her *stop*. No, no, take that back... careful what you wish for...! He's still in front of the TV, jeans unfastened, at 2 AM when he hears her outside. He stands and moves to the door, zipping up as he goes. It crashes open and Buffy stands there. Her eyes are hollow, rimmed with red. She looks about as good as I feel. "Couldn't sleep," she mutters, her only greeting, and even that paltry excuse is more conversation than she gives him most nights. Her small hands are on him, greedy, seizing his shirt and coat and shoving them off as one before Spike can react. He still suffers from a bit of alcohol fog, and it takes him a minute to focus. But a moment later he springs into action. Grips her wrists, encircling them with his fingers, painfully tight. She's surprised, looks up at him. "Feeling frustrated, Luv?" he snickers, tightening his grip. Hopefully she'll be good and bruised in the morning. She struggles half heartedly but he doesn't relent, and ignores her pleas. Drags her by her wrists to the wall and pins her against it, holding her hands above her head. He separates her legs with his thigh and shoves it against her crotch. She turns her head to the side and bites her lip. She can feel his dick, hard and long and angry, pushing against her. She whimpers and tries to rub there, the emptiness between her legs returning tenfold and begging to be assuaged, but he simply presses harder into her, closing all space between them and destroying any possibility of movement. Leans in and whispers furiously in her ear, "You think can you just come here now after running out on me?" He reeks of alcohol. She wrinkles her nose in slight distaste. "How much... did you drink?" she manages to gasp out beneath his crushing embrace. "Enough to forget." "Forget what?" "Why I started drinking." She almost wants to chuckle at his response, at their ridiculous situation and their ridiculous need for power games. Almost, but not quite. "Let me go," she answers quietly, and struggles again. He keeps her pinned for another moment, just because he can, amused by her attempts to break free. Asshole! Abruptly, he releases her, walks to his chair, and flops back down. She follows him suspiciously. What's going on here? He keeps his gaze fixed steadily on the television. Buffy glances at the screen: some inane late night rerun that he's suddenly developed an interest in. We'll see about that. She straddles him and slips her arms lightly around his neck. Spike strains his neck to the side so he can watch his program. Is he trying to play hard to get? She wonders idly. What a joke! She wriggles enticingly against him. He clamps his hands around her tiny hips, shifting her slightly to his benefit, but refuses to look at her or acknowledge her in any manner. Fine, well, it doesn't have to take long. She traces the outline of his jean clad hardness with her finger tips then rubs herself up and down his length, fighting the urge to groan. If he can be silent, so can I. Won't make a peep... She rises up and tries to tug her leather pants off, having difficulty. Usually he assists her, and eagerly. What is his problem?! He avoids her irritated gaze, keeps determined eyes focused in the distance. She kicks her boots away, nearly losing her balance in the process, and toes the smooth, tight material of her pants off. No reaction from Spike. She unzips his jeans, maneuvering his hard flesh out, and repeats her earlier movements: rubs directly against him, only this time it's skin on skin, soft, wet, thick, warm skin... Buffy sees a chord in his neck tense, and his grip around her hips tightens. She plays him a little longer, stroking the tip of his dick against her raw, hot opening before sliding down and forcing him inside. She bounces a few times then makes him fill her completely. Barely represses the blissful shudder threatening to ripple through her body. Places her hands on his bare chest, nails drawn, to steady herself. Spike grits his teeth, eyes twitching. He can't even decipher what it is he's supposedly so absorbed in on the TV. Buffy intoxicates each of his senses past overflowing; her scent has changed again... a deeper, richer musk knotted with cool night air, a bit of sweat and arousal, combined with his own smell and her ever present vanilla gloss. Still won't look at me, hmm? Buffy scratches him lightly, across, diagonal and up and down his chest, while she rocks and slides. She needs friction. As in, yesterday. She's too wet and slippery to get it from his now soaking member, and is forced to seek it elsewhere. The skin on his abdomen is dry, the muscles there taut and firm... and so this area becomes her new solace, the only thing that matters in the entire world. The Apocalypse could come and go and she probably wouldn't notice. Gripping his upper arms, fingers flexing open and closed, she pushes in and shimmies her clit against his smooth skin, all while keeping his cock deeply imbedded inside her. It's impossible to maintain any rhythm, her need is too great, and she's too close to the edge. She jerks sporadically then trembles, losing all pretense of control, grinding hard against him, her warm liquid painting him, finally earning herself a few seconds of gratified release. "Oh, ahhhh...." She smiles and draws out a soft, exaggerated sigh, taunting him with the pleasure she's stolen from his unwilling body, and shakes her hair out with deliberate, relaxed motions. Her anxiety and tension dissolve marginally. It takes all of Spike's willpower not to push up into her and explode. Wouldn't take half a thrust. But he doesn't move a muscle, doesn't moan or concede to the torture she's wreaking on his mind and body. She wants me to react. Misguided pride washes over him. A reaction, therefore, is precisely what he will not bestow upon her. Even if it kills him. Unfortunately, he senses that Buffy's just getting started; her fast, merciless orgasm is the first of many. And he hadn't even participated, hadn't encouraged her in any way -- Feel used, much? Still quivering around his cock, Buffy settles into a slower pace, attempting to regain a modicum of composure. Spike notices that she doesn't bother trying to kiss him. Filled our quota at the Bronze, did we? She begins to climb again, lazily at first, gaining speed and momentum. Sits up, rising on her knees, then drops, letting gravity perform its magic, making him impale her over and over and over again. This time she groans. Can't help it, and doesn't care. Several minutes later, a second orgasm stabs at her, hovering in her gut and twisting there before rolling languorously through her. She almost shrieks, then clutches at his hair and pulls his face into her neck, desperate for a reaction. Any reaction. "C'mon," she grits out, roughly, riding out the last clutches of ecstasy, "I *know*..." (gasp) "...you want me." The arrogant tone in her voice makes him want to kill her. "I imagine that's bloody obvious at this point." She pulls back without breaking her hold around him and studies him curiously. He wants to believe she cares. He wants to believe she's genuinely unnerved by his lack of enthusiasm. But he knows better, because she hasn't stopped moving. Her hips continue to writhe and squirm, riding him for all he's worth. This little share and tell moment we're having won't interrupt her endless quest for release. Pointless small talk in-between getting off. Real touching, Slayer. Aggravated, she persists. "You gonna help me out here? I feel like I'm screwing a corpse." "Hate to break it to you, *pet*, but I am a corpse," he growls back. "Figure of speech, Spike. You know what those are?" Her words are stilted, halting, working in tandem with her sharp gulps of breath. She's sweating something fierce now, Spike notices with annoyance. Working herself into a frenzy, with or without my cooperation. Thin whisps of hair stick to her forehead. "Beginning to learn," he murmurs, digging and clamping his own hips deeply into the chair, resolutely refusing to move in her. "Like when you say, 'Stop that,' you really mean, 'Fuck me sideways.'" He expects an angry or disgusted retort. When it doesn't occur, he realizes she's not paying him a lick of attention. Probably 'cause she's about to hit her third bloody orgasm. She bucks and grinds, whipping her face from side to side, slashing his skin with her nails repeatedly... Her breasts bounce and he can see her nipples poking at the thin material of her shirt. The urge to squeeze them, none too gently, is becoming unbearable -- "Buffy, listen to me, you stupid -- " "Shh...." She silences him harshly and shuts her eyes, needing to concentrate. "Shh..." The whispered plea changes tone and she gasps out, "Shhh...oh shit, shit, Spike...!" She doesn't curse often, but lately, he's noticed she can't stop herself from swearing at the moment of climax. "Fuck, shit..." she wails, and for the time being, it's music to his ears. He thinks briefly of the 'bot... the niceties he'd programmed it to say, the cooing platitudes of love and desire. How could he have known the real Buffy's strangled curses would be infinitely sexier? He's got her right where he wants her, frantically urging herself to orgasm... so why am I so miserable? "Spike," she hiccups, flexing and shuddering, this time speaking in a tone that's something close to demanding, "Give me... what... I came for." Bloody hell. There's no way he can be expected to hold off now. He tackles her to the ground and pounds her, once, twice, three times, (her head knocking against the floor), so deep that she yells out in pain and surprise, and yes, relief. At last...! He floods her with his come, taking great pleasure in the act of revenge, the act of forcing her to absorb all his sticky wetness, filling her with something of his she'll not easily be rid of. "Oh, god..." she moans and he echoes her sentiments, unable to stop moving inside her despite having emptied himself entirely. Some moments pass. Her arms and legs remain ensnared around him, trapping him. He stands like this, as she clings to him, and turns off the TV. Falls back into his chair. Looks her dead in the eye. "What is it, then, that you came here for?" Ferocious sex kitten Buffy is replaced by shy, embarrassed Buffy. "You know what." "I want to hear it from you," he orders. "You're the only one who -- who makes me feel... anything..." she stammers softly. "This how you show your gratitude, then?" She's confused. He gently extricates her from their sweaty, clenching embrace and settles her on the arm of the chair. Stretches out and traces his chest with his fingertips until her eyes are drawn to it. "There's probably a patch of skin somewhere you haven't torn to ribbons." She gasps, horrified. Every inch of his chest is covered in scratches, shooting out in all directions, some thin and light; most deep and crimson red. "I'm..." Not sorry. Not sorry. Not sorry. Not. Sorry. "I didn't -- realize what I was..." He scrutinizes her, almost certain an apology lies slaughtered between her bruised lips. After a beat, she continues, "I said you make me feel. I didn't say you make me feel *good*." "Oh, that's not entirely true now, is it, Slayer. You don't believe that." He leers slightly, then his expression softens again. They're talking, really talking, and as long as he can resist the palpable urge to bring this fact to her attention, maybe he'll get somewhere tonight. "You had three by my count, how many does it take? When is it enough?" "It's never enough. Don't you know that?" she responds, her voice low and desperate. "Tell me what you need, Buffy," he commands. "What I need, you can't give me," she answers softly. He notices the sadness in her eyes then. Maybe it's been there all night, but I was too caught up pretending I could resist her. "Why don't you let me try?" She shakes her head, turns away, hating his gentle tone and pleading eyes. "Let's not do this." He won't be so easily deterred, which, surely she must realize by now. Probably counts on it, this eternal tug of war, this hide and seek of non-communication. He looks at her hand splayed across the back of the chair. Imagines breaking the tiny bones in her fingers. Why stop there? If he wanted to, he could break each bone in her gorgeous body, tie her to the bed for months and shag her whenever he got the urge. Which would be constant. He stares it her, unmoving. Watches a tear slip out of her eye and dart down her cheek. Pulls her back onto his lap. She cuddles to him, sliding her arms around his middle, burying her face there. Her salty tears smear his chest, stinging the cuts there. He ignores the discomfort and tries again. Whispers soothingly in her ear: "Tell me what you need." She's silent for a minute. "It's hot in here," she complains suddenly. Lifts herself out of his lap and picks up her pants. Yanks them on, pausing to swipe angrily at her eyes. He notices her panties on the floor but doesn't tell her. He's collected three pairs in total. He wonders if she abandons them on purpose, watering his obsession like a plant to keep it alive. He prefers to collect scars, such as the ones currently decorating his chest. They comfort him during lonely mornings after, concrete proof that her amorous visits are not dreams, or nightmares... or some combination of both. He stands then, zips up and strolls away. "Where are you going?" she interrogates sharply, fingers combing through her hair. You don't leave first. That's not how it works. He doesn't respond, continues moving to the fridge. Opens the freezer and returns with an ice cube in his hand. "You said it was hot in here," he explains, and pops the ice into his mouth for a moment. Sucks it briefly then extracts it and glides it up her arm. She shivers appreciatively. He stands behind her, one hand on her hip, and plays the ice across her collarbone and shoulder blades, up, down, leaving a chilly, wet trail. Some drops fall to the thin material of her tank top and cling there. He lifts her hair and draws the ice slowly toward the back of her neck. "Oh," she sighs, arching her neck then dropping her head forward to grant him access. "Yes." He keeps it there, circling the tender area until the ice finishes melting, its journey complete. Dips his face in close and plants some open mouthed kisses on the back of her neck, sucking lightly, enjoying the cool flesh between his lips. "That was nice," Buffy admits with shallow breath, swallowing as the relative warmth of his mouth competes with the residue of cold ice for her attention. She pivots to face him. "Are you... I mean, do you want me to...?" "Help yourself," he tells her, pleased she's staying a while longer. If he has his way, they'll play Ice Capades 'til morning. Buffy moves to the freezer and tugs it open. Spots an ice tray and something else inside. "What's this?" she calls out, removing the half pint container and examining it. It's coated in a thin layer of ice. Spike appears and tries to take it from her, a bit anxiously. "Oh, it's nothing." She holds tight, brushes the ice off and reads the label. "Non-fat frozen yogurt?" she puzzles out. "You want some?" he asks quietly, and if she didn't know better, she would swear he was holding his breath. She squints at the label. "It expired three months ago, Spike. Ew." "Oh, well that's..." "It has freezer burn. You should throw it out." She sets it aside. He scrunches his brow. "I never eat it," he mutters. "Didn't know it had gone off." "If you never eat it, why do you have it?" she asks, not sure why this was a topic worthy of discussion, but feeling oddly compelled to pursue it. He was certainly acting strangely. "Oh, you know, visitors... I do have them sometimes. Or, I used to, your little sis for one..." "Oh." He blurts out the truth. "I saw you once. Last fall, before all the Glory business. You had some good dustings, got home around midnight and gorged yourself on the stuff." She looks up at him. He doesn't hold her gaze for long. Smooth move, remind her how you used to stalk her, how you still do... But her mind seems elsewhere, and her voice is gentle. "Was my mom there?" "I expect she was about. Didn't see her in the kitchen that night, but..." he shrugs. They're silent for a while, standing by his fridge, uncertain how to proceed. Spike yields first, as usual, and clears his throat. "Couldn't understand how a little thing like you shoveled back all that grub." He leans in close. "Fun to watch, though. You were *ravenous*--" She puts a hand to his chest, pushing him out of her space. "Alright, the creep factor is returning --" He grabs her by the elbow. "Thought maybe if you stopped by after patrol, well, I'd have some here waiting for you." He rolls his eyes. "Stupid git. That never happened, did it?" he adds, unable to prevent a dangerous, bitter note from splintering his voice. "S'not like we talk when you come by, is it?" "No, it isn't." Buffy regains her resolve, knows its time to split for real. She's partially disturbed by Spike's behavior, and partially touched, and it's hard to say which reaction unnerves her more. Why does he have to do things like that?? She treads swiftly toward the door. He lets her get outside before following, then startles her by appearing at by her side. "You can't go yet..." She halts, but doesn't turn around. He circles her, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. When they're face to face, he murmurs, "You still seem hot. Are you? Hot?" "Spike -- " Talk about lame excuses... He tries a different tack. "You never answered my question." He takes her hand in his, presses his thumb firmly back and forth across her palm. "What do you need?" She regards him silently. Her gaze lowers to his chest, criss crossed in red by the very fingers he's stroking. She thinks about the nasty bruise he sported on his face until recently, (in front of her friends at her birthday party no less), another gift by her hand. She thinks about every event that's brought her to this moment. Beating him raw, blatantly using him, spurning him then luring him back -- and he took it all, reveled in it, actually, as though it were nothing less than he deserved. And maybe there's some truth to that, but -- "I need you to make me stop." Her voice quavers. He responds too quickly: "I don't want you to stop." She sighs, stronger vocal chords emerging. "I told you you couldn't give me what I need." "So what difference does a few more hours make?" He slips his hand barely under her shirt, drawing tiny circles across the delectably smooth skin. He curses himself for playing stubborn earlier, wishes he'd taken advantage of her when she arrived. He knows he'll replay that encounter endlessly in his mind later on, plugging in different scenarios and results. His hand spans her ribcage and hovers over one breast. "Do you know how good ice would feel right here?" he asks her, gently plucking her nipple with his thumb and finger. His other hand creeps stealthily up her leg, reaching the heat between her thighs and pushing the heel of his palm against her. He rubs soothingly. "Or here?" She gasps and closes her eyes, knowing the battle's over and she's lost. He smiles, a bit stiffly, and leads her back inside the crypt.
THE
END
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