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| In Omne Tempus - The Gleam In Your Eyes Is So Familiar A Gleam by Holly (1 Review) | | - abc + + |  | | | A/N: Okay, I’m incredibly nervous about this chapter. My betas have all loved it—thankfully—though there have been conflicting opinions, so I’m going to try and cover all bases.
It’s important to remember that the Buffy in this story is very different from the Buffy in Whedonverse. This Buffy doesn’t have the experience with Angel to sour her opinion of vampires and relationships—or anything, now that I mention it. She also is, unknowingly, the unclaimed mate of a vampire. Thus she is subject to the same drives that Spike is, only it’s a lot more jarring as she has no idea what’s going on. It’s also important to remember that Spike is an unrepentant, soulless vampire. I tend to shmoop him up in my fiction (‘cause I love shmoopy Spike), and this story is likely as close as I’m going to ever come to experimenting with the evil demon aspect of his nature. I tend to play with later season stuff to avoid this very thing…so this is new territory for me.
Also, proceed with caution. This borders on non-con. Just remember that you love and trust me. *innocent smile*
As always, thanks to my amazing betas. And another astonished WOW to everyone who has read/reviewed/emailed me about this fic. You guys are totally awesome. Thank you so, so, so much.
Chapter Seven
The Gleam In Your Eyes Is So Familiar A Gleam
The arrival of his family changed everything. It wasn’t like before; it wasn’t a matter of simple interference because his demon couldn’t stand what was happening to his mate. This was a whole new ballgame. Angelus had come to the Hellmouth, and Spike could only hazard a guess why.
If they thought they could take his mate away from him—if Angelus was looking to kill his first slayer—they were going to be bitterly disappointed.
He’d made his decision, then. No more waiting.
Buffy was his, and she was going to know it tonight.
He watched her from his normal vantage point near her bedroom window as she scurried out her front door, giving her mother some well-rehearsed excuse as to where she was going. She was headed out in the familiar direction of his cemetery.
A slow smile crossed his lips. He ground out his cigarette, took in an appreciative, however unneeded, breath of night air, and started after her.
Spike’s mind raced. He’d envisioned his reunion with Buffy a thousand different times; a thousand different ways. In some scenarios, she remembered him, and her eyes would light up with joy at the simple sight of his face. In others, she’d spit some nasty gibe and attacked with her reliable stake, only to be overpowered, as he had spent years memorizing every delicious move her curvy, womanly body had to offer the hunt.
He preferred the latter of his fantasies. Seeing her angry in recent years never failed to get him horny. He felt at times like one of those nasty old men that camped outside high school football games to get a glimpse of nubile bouncing cheerleaders, but similarly, he took no shame in it. Buffy was his, and he intended to memorize every inch of her. It was his right.
Now that the wait was over, he could embrace everything he’d ignored for the past decade and a half. Inner barriers came crashing down, and the demon all but shrieked in delight.
Mine, mine, mine.
Spike ducked behind a mausoleum, his skin tingling at his proximity to her. She was so agonizingly close; closer than she’d been to him since the night he’d taken her home. Granted, he’d come pretty close to her the night he’d done in Thomas Randall. Close, but not close enough. Not like this. He could feel himself waging a losing battle with self-control. The scent of her nearly drove him out of his mind, and the promise of her blood was playing a dangerous game of chicken with what little reserve he had left.
My Slayer, his demon growled. She’s mine!
He could practically see her mind racing. She felt him. He was close enough that she had to feel him.
Small shivers were dancing up and down her arms, and her eyes were wide. She regulated her breathing to hide the hint of fear that was wrestling with her tenacity, her fingers curled around her stake.
Buffy never lost that knowledge that every fight could be her last, despite how good she was. He admired that. Too many slayers—including the two notches on his belt—mentally placed themselves in a rank above those before them; convincing themselves that they were different, and would not share the final fate of the Chosen Ones. They were good; both the slayers he’d fought had been a rush unlike anything he’d experienced. They’d similarly suffered from that dreaded superiority complex. They’d failed to recognize that he was a vampire of the ages, and that was what had gotten them killed.
Buffy was good and she knew it, but she likewise feared appropriately. And it was her fear that kept her strong.
“Okay,” she said after a few minutes, a delicious edge to her voice. “Not that I’m not enjoying this excerpt from a Sting music video, but whoever’s there better come out now.”
Spike grinned. Oh, such spunk.
“I’m serious. A moody slayer is a dangerous slayer.”
“Really? It’s a wonder that li’l tidbit wasn’ highlighted in the manual.”
Her head whipped up and her eyes met his for the first time in fourteen years, flashing with gold so vibrant he felt himself nearly moved to tears. Her gasp of surprise would remain with him until the end of days; he knew it.
Mate! his demon screamed. Mate! She’s mine!
Buffy saw it, too. She was frozen in place, shock numbing her body.
“You…” Small shudders began wracking her shoulders. “Y-you…your eyes.”
Inwardly, Spike grinned. That had been the first thing she noticed about him when she was four. It was fitting. It tied every end together. His eyes were gold for her, as well. “Glowing,” he agreed, taking a step forward. “Like yours.”
“Mine are glowy?”
“Effulgent.”
He was tormenting himself. The girl was shaken and confused, and he kept coming toward her. With every step, the demon screamed for more. Clawed with the need to touch her. To revel in the thrill of her pulse against his mouth. Sample the sweetness of her lips. Stake his claim on her now so that no one ever doubted that she belonged to him.
Buffy raised her stake again, taking a step back. “Wh-who are you?”
“Jus’ another vamp, luv,” he retorted with a disarming shrug. “Another nasty that stalks young girls while they sleep.”
“No.” She shook her head, her eyes not leaving his. “I know you.”
“’S that right?”
Take her! Take her!
The young woman studied him hard for a long, silent minute. “Okay,” she said, shaking her head again. “Well, maybe I’ve just…run into you on patrol…before. Vampire, right?”
“Jus’ confessed as much, din’t I? Though I gotta say, kitten, I’m an awful bit hurt that you din’t find me memorable.” Spike grinned as he continued to advance. Every inch of him flooded with excitement. “Change your mind, then?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m focused currently on the vampire part.”
His eyes flickered. “What a shame.”
Buffy might as well have offered him her throat. Instinct prevailed over sensibility; she leapt forward the next second, a kick aimed at his head, pleasantries foregone and the part of her that was destined against him setting her reflexes on autopilot. The demon likewise reacted on instinct, snarling to life, fangs descending in need for her soft throat.
At the same time, his body rejoiced as his arms closed around her, even in the heat of battle. God, she couldn’t know the dangerous game she was playing. Her skin was so warm; her hair smelled of vanilla, he could nearly taste her exhilarating rush of adrenaline.
His cock grew painfully hard and bloodlust washed him over.
No! cried his inner-William. No! Stop!
“So feisty,” he growled into her ear, shoving his inner-William aside. “So bleedin’ hot.”
He was intoxicated with her scent, and his control was quickly spiraling out of grasp. He needed her blood. He needed her taste. He needed to know the haven of her body, and tie her lifeline to his for eternity. She was against him, her breath hot on his skin, and he was irrevocably lost.
“Oh, Buffy,” he moaned, closing his hands around her upper arms, using his leverage to flip her beneath him. His mouth was automatically drawn to her throat, tongue peeking out to lave her skin worshipfully, his fangs moving over her jugular in a slow, seductive dance. “My Slayer. Christ, you taste good.”
She went rigid beneath him, her body tight with fear. “Wh-what…what are you…what are you doing?”
Spike lowered a hand to her wrist slowly, coaxing her stake away from her with his persuasive fingers. “’m takin’ what’s mine,” he whispered into her.
“What—what?”
“Buffy…”
“How do you…” A sharp gasp tore through her, and she arched into him when his blunt teeth sank into her throat. God, he was just tormenting his demon now, but Spike had an affinity for torture that hadn’t been fully tickled in years. He was touching her for the first time as an adult, and all sense of knowledge and reason had completely collapsed in the face of brute desire.
Too fast! Inner-William screamed. Too fast! You’re hurtin’ her!
Doesn’ sound hurt to me, Spike mused absently. He was burnt with a sudden need to erase her mind of every intimate touch she had received from foreign hands. The world had dissolved around them; he was emerging from a long famine, and what he needed was directly under his fangs.
Buffy shuddered violently beneath him, drawing in a sharp breath. “Don’t…”
“Stop me. You’re the Slayer, aren’t you?”
That seemed to snap her out of it. The next minute, Spike found himself smashed into a nearby mausoleum, an irate Buffy glaring at him as she jumped to her feet. “Yes,” she spat, reclaiming her stake from where he had dropped it, raising it with a perked brow. “I am the Slayer. Need a definition?”
“Don’ think so, luv,” Spike retorted, unable to hide his grin, eyes flickering as she approached. “’ve had my share of slayers. Jus’ not…” His gaze raked down her body. “Carnally.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not like other girls.”
“That’s for bloody sure.”
It was nothing of consequence, but the fire in Buffy’s eyes withered once more as she studied him carefully. He could see her thinking; could feel her thoughts unraveling as long buried memories fought their way to the surface. There was recognition there; recognition beginning to be called upon. He could feel her need, reveled in her confusion, and all while he kept against the wall and forced himself not to leap forward and take her in his arms. The hum of her blood echoed against his teeth. Christ, he needed her so bad.
Too soon. Too bleedin’ soon.
“I know you,” Buffy said again, her voice hesitant, stake aimed warningly. “I’ve seen you before.”
Spike nodded. “Yes, you have.”
“I don’t…” Her stake hand was trembling. He’d not once seen her so shaken on patrol, and he didn’t know if it was more appropriate to revel in his success or comfort her with an explanation. “You were a vampire when I knew you before?”
“All vampire, baby. Have been since 1880.”
“Then that’s a big yes.”
He waggled his brows suggestively. “Very big.”
Her expression turned stony. “Were you this much of a twisted perv when I knew you before?”
“Yes,” he replied shamelessly, “I jus’ din’t act it around you.”
Buffy’s brow furrowed, and recognition stormed her eyes. Recognition charged with ire and something else, adding up to an explosion of sensory. “Dammit, you weren’t supposed to exist!” she snapped, tossing the stake to the ground. Whether or not she intended to render herself unarmed, Spike didn’t know. Regardless, her outburst had the full of his attention now. “I’ve spent years convincing myself that you were just a dream! God, why now?”
“You remember?”
“No. I just…” She shook her head, licking her lips, which prompted a groan from Spike. “I’ve…you’ve…you’ve been there. Wherever I…”
Her eyes widened then, and the vampire could’ve sworn his heart leapt.
She remembers.
Buffy hazarded a cautious step forward. Her entire body was trembling, her breathing labored. And he swore she’d never been as beautiful in all her life as she was at that moment. “…Spike?”
For a split second, he felt he could lose himself in tears. The sound of his name on her lips was exquisite. It lasted all of an instant, but to him, that single beat was worth everything he’d given up; everything and more. The boundless look that overwhelmed her face, the way her eyes widened, the way she was both haunted and moved all in the same chord.
“Spike.” She tore away from his gaze, trembling. “Oh my God.”
He released a steady breath. “Promised you I’d be back, pet.”
“I thought…God, I thought…”
“Keep my word, right?”
“You…this can’t…” Tears welled in her eyes before she could help herself, and his heart about broke. “I can’t…you’re a vampire?”
A nervous chuckle sputtered through his lips. “Well, yeh, last time I checked. Come on, kitten. Tell me you don’ remember playin’ peek-a-boo with my bumpies.”
“I convinced myself I made that up.”
“Off what?”
“I don’t know!” Something erupted then, and indignation flooded her eyes once more. “So you’re just coming back now, to, what? Do what you didn’t do when I was a child? Was that entire ‘bringing me home’ thing a ruse to get on my good side for when my blood suddenly became Slayer-flavored?”
Mentioning her blood was a foolish thing, and to her credit, she realized this when her outburst was answered with an impassioned growl.
“Don’ toy with me, Slayer,” Spike snarled.
“What? You’ll rip my throat out? Puhlease.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you decided to not kill me when I was four. I wasn’t born in a barn, and I didn’t start doing this just yesterday.”
“’m not here to kill you, sweetling.”
“Oh yeah?”
Spike nodded and took a step forward. “I told you,” he said lowly, “back then, an’ a few minutes ago. Before I knew you were a slayer…before everythin’…I told you I’d be back for you. I promised.”
She was giving him the strangest look. Lost, confused, but drawn. Oh, so drawn. Like a moth to the bloody flame. He knew that look well. Knew it, because for the past fourteen years, it had been nearly his only driving emotion. “Why?” she asked headily. “Why?”
He stopped when she was just a breath away, his demon screaming its need again. She was so near. Her fear both fed his lust and egged him to provide her comfort. The night was unfolding like a dream; he could barely conceive that she was actually there. Her eyes were glowing for him, and she was there.
He released a deep breath, raising a hand to run up her arm, shuddering when she shivered beneath his touch.
Fuck.
I gotta have her.
Control was slipping.
Tell her to run. Tell her to run now.
But he didn’t. He was much too selfish for that. His mate was standing before him, and he’d already waited far too long.
“Buffy…” he groaned, reaching for her before he could stop himself. The next second, his arms were around her waist, her body was against his, and he buried his mouth in her throat, peppering her sweet skin with hot, hungry kisses. “Bloody hell.”
She froze in his arms. “Spike…”
It was all lost. Completely lost. Control had snapped. He growled into her, twisted her in his arms, pressing her against the stone wall of the mausoleum. Her soft, supple body was against him, the warmth of her burning him from the inside. God, she smelled so good. So fucking good. And it had been so, so long.
“Buffy,” he whimpered, suckling at her flesh. “Oh Christ, Buffy.”
There was no response. She neither fought nor reciprocated his touches, and he was too far gone to notice. His hands explored her immodestly; he cupped her breasts, tweaking her nipples through her blouse, grunting brusquely into her skin. “So hot,” he growled. “Taste so sweet.”
Been forever.
The scent of her arousal was nearly as prominent as her fear, and once it hit his nose, he nearly fell to his knees. God, how long had he waited for this? How long had he followed her, led by the promise that she was his, and that he would be the one she kissed goodnight for the rest of eternity? His lips were on her skin. He was swimming in her desire, and the rush of her blood was his for the taking.
“My Slayer.”
“Ohhh…”
He dipped a hand between them, pressing his leg between hers so that he fell between them, and fumbled hastily with the zipper to her jeans. “You smell so good.”
Her nails dug into his forearms; the thunderous pounding of her heart driving him onward. The air around her hung in fear, but he ignored it. Ignored everything. The hum of her blood urged him onward, the sweetness of her desire giving him all the justification his demon understood or needed. She might not know it, but she wanted him. And he was a fool to think he could wait.
“What are you—”
He didn’t let her finish. Couldn’t. Gone was the quiet, reasonable voice of his inner William, lost irrevocably to the feel of his mate against him. The warmth that touched his fingertips, the rush of fluids that danced over his skin as his fingers traced her pussy lips, soaking up her heat.
“Mine,” he growled into her hair, sinking a finger inside her. And he was swallowed by warmth. “You’re mine, Buffy.”
“Please, I don’t—”
God she was so tight. So fucking tight. Spike pressed his lips to her forehead and plunged another finger into her, his thumb settling over her clit. His need was too great to keep it slow. Too starved for touch to treat her delicately. To remember that she was a virgin. To remember anything other than, for the first time in over ten years, he was with a woman he could have.
Everything else simply blanked out. He ground his cock against her, thrusting his intrusive fingers into her body, massaging her clit furiously. Hungry eyes soaked up the outrage and fear, the passion and the confusion. She was a thousand things at once, and all of them were his.
“Bleeding hell, you’re so tight.” He willed his eyes closed, pressing his brow to hers.
“Guh…”
“Buffy—”
It was over, then. Buffy threw her head back and cried out, spasming into his hand, drenching his skin with her spendings. She clung to him sweetly, her pulse hammering a thunderous cadence, and he about lost himself all over again for the feel of her against him. The scent of her orgasm in the air. Her juices dribbling down his fingers as her body exploded and came down.
He might have done it then, if it hadn’t been for what next hit the air.
Blood first. Then tears.
My God.
Spike reeled back in horror, devastated.
Buffy was crying, and not from pleasure.
Oh my God.
What the hell had he just done?
His demon didn’t care. His demon was riled and horny, and desperate for her body. Desperate to feel the welcoming warmth of her pussy strangling him into a new life. In terrible need of her, now that he’d given himself this first taste.
His demon didn’t care that Buffy was crying. His demon didn’t care that his force had hurt. Not the way it should. She was his, what he had done to her was the way it was between mates, and that was all his demon wanted or needed to know.
The part of him that was more than the demon, but less than the sobbing William—the part of him that was Spike—was thoroughly horrified.
“Buffy…” He wanted to hold her, but didn’t dare bring her into his arms. Didn’t even dare to take a step forward. He’d hurt her in a way that was far more than a flesh wound, and far more permanent. And in doing so, he’d gutted himself. “Buffy…run.”
She just looked at him.
“Run. Run now. Run home.” His jaw clenched. “Before I lose control again.”
Something different flashed across her eyes; something beyond confusion. Something that touched compassion. Something akin to awe and wonder beyond the fear and uncertainty. Something, he was nearly convinced, that he’d just imagined.
It was gone the next second, and so was she. Running like she never had. Running in the direction of home.
Spike collapsed.
Good God.
He’d hurt her. He’d hurt Buffy. That was supposed to be impossible.
So many things are supposed to be impossible.
He needed her, but he didn’t dare follow. Not now.
Not now, when he had made her bleed.
To be continued in Chapter Eight: Could We Start Again, Please…
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