thorns & roses
by Denny
NC-17
pairings: Spike/Buffy, Spike & Dawn *friendship*
*Bloodshedverse note-bloodplay will be coming in later chapters*
thorns & roses – part one
O, that this too too solid flesh
would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! – Hamlet (William Shakespeare)
Her arm hurt. She was sore, and tired. Moreover, the bruise on her forehead looked like an overripe strawberry, swollen and puffy with lots of black dots instead of pleasant juicy red ones. No pop-in-your-mouth goodness, here, Dawn moaned. The new look was going to suck when she went to school in the morning. Bad enough she was too tall, and too skinny, and too mad to be at school all day anyway. But to have this big piece of fruit sticking out of her forehead? God, it was just going to add another scab to her already pitiful list of social scars.
Dawn wanted to scream. Or at least really beat something until it bled a whole lot.
This was all stupid Willow 's fault. If she hadn't been hanging out with that warlock power-witch drug demon guy or whatever he was – she wouldn't have gone all black-eyed and crazy – and driven that car into that damn wall.
It was just, that – damn it, damn it, damn it! It was just so unfair that her arm hurt, her head hurt and still Buffy had barely noticed.
Dawn rolled over in her bed, and glanced at the clock. It was nearly six o'clock in the morning. She hadn't slept all night.
Touching, smelling, and seeing her under him, pleading with him. God, yes, she was begging him, “Please Spike, make me come, make me come.”
He was nearly numb, blinded by her and her passion for him – no, her need for his body. He was doing this for her. All he knew, all he wanted to know, was her. She was so wet, so moist, his cock slid into her again and again, like silk against satin. He craved her, her smell, her touch, her taste. He accepted every inch of her. In his balls, in his gut, in his dead heart.
Her eyes were clenched shut as he moved above her. He didn't want to see her, either. Not now. Not yet. So he closed his eyes, too.
Thrust, hips, move, hot, wet, fuck. He had to keep fucking.
His mind searched for a place to find itself. Spike knew he was lost. Still he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. He was a demon – a vampire. It was his nature to lust, to desire, to allow his passions and needs to control his every thought, choice and deed. This was what he wanted. He'd begged for it in that dark alley so long ago. The vampire was what Buffy wanted, too, just like Drusilla. He knew that. It made it possible for him to do the things to their bodies that they needed. It gave him the power to be the creature above Buffy now – fucking her until she was numb and sweet hot oblivion saturated her entire being. Maybe this was what he really loved. His power over her body.
Suddenly, Spike pulled back. His arms momentarily weakened and his mind nearly empty of desire – for the briefest second – he was uncertain. He was afraid he really didn't love her.
He pushed into her again – still hard and hot. Her eyes remained closed. She hadn't even noticed him hesitate.
Dawn roamed through the halls. She couldn't bear sitting in a classroom. She'd be much better off pretending she was going to class, and then sneaking into a washroom or even the basement to avoid a teacher or some other over zealous hall monitor type. Class was just not the answer. She simply didn't want to do the school thing. She couldn't stay at home, either. Not with stupid Willow around all day. Then of course, there was Buffy, too.
It just wasn't fair.
Whoops! Dawn nearly yelped, as she scurried around a corner. The Vice-Principal, an ancient shape shifter Dawn suspected, appeared suddenly at the top of the staircase, heading in her direction. Her stiff-collared shirt and frozen sneer offered little hope of a friendly sit-down on the plausible reasons for Dawn's absence from class. It was time to make a detour to the basement – right now or maybe, she should just leave the building. Get out while she could.
Maybe she should just run away? That was an idea that made sense, she figured.
Her sister was a pain. Some days Buffy acted as if she really cared how Dawn felt, how she was doing in school, if she needed new school clothes or if she noticed how lonely Dawn was even though Buffy was back – alive and well. Then there were those other days when Buffy completely forgot about her.
Shit, shit, shit.
That was it, Dawn realized. This wasn't going to work. She couldn't stay in school today. Even sneaking around wasn't going to work.
She needed to talk to someone – to go and visit a friend. Her first best friend. They hadn't talked in a long time. Not really. Not since Buffy came back.
As he continued to work his heart and cock into Buffy, Spike thought about the possibility that he only had control over his un-life when he was fucking - or killing.
His demon was bright tonight – more aware. It urged him to taste Buffy, to destroy her. With her eyes clapped shut, her sex surrounding his, all he had to do was brush his lips from her ear lobes down the side of her wet neck and – and take her. This was his nature. He was an “evil soulless thing” that must hunt, and kill and destroy – and make passionate love – no, loveless sex – to his Slayer.
Oh, God, why do I crave this kind of love?
Then quickly, Spike wondered why he had even asked God such a question. He knew God couldn't hear him. Couldn't see him. If he could, Spike would certainly be in hell.
He had to concentrate on his fucking duty. This was all he could give her. His dick, his lips, his tongue. He didn't have a soul, a beating heart – he couldn't love.
Still, he prayed he loved Buffy.
Spike opened his eyes, and concentrated on love.
Dawn had gotten out. She was slicker than slick – faster than anybody anywhere. She'd beaten the brass on this one. As she strolled through the streets of Sunnydale, she felt close to laughing aloud. She'd escaped Sunnydale High without a second glance from fellow student or teacher foe. She'd made it! And now, she was off to the cemetery.
Away we go!
It reminded her of a riddle or children's rhyme buried deep inside her head.
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go, high ho, the merry oh, a hunting we will go.
Pausing for a few seconds, she weighed her options. Home to stupid Willow and Buffy – if she were even there. Or keep to her original plan.
His cemetery was up the road, around the bend – give or take a few steps – and near the corner.
Original plan, it would be, she decided.
“Yes, love, I'll make you come. Please come for me, for me, pet.” Spike whispered as he moved his hips steadily driving his dick into her, deeper and harder. They'd been fucking for hours. He'd lost track of how many times she'd asked him to make her come, and how many times he'd fulfilled her request. She had gasped, moaned and cried out his name so often that his dick ached. He'd come each time he'd made her come – or at least he thought he had. He couldn't really tell. His pleasure – his orgasms seemed to go unnoticed. She didn't care about how he felt. He knew that. Buffy's focus was on the hard cock inside her, the mouth on her tits, the fingers probing her clit and the tongue, separating, soothing and roaming over her – and into her. Buffy wanted Spike doing what he did best.
Fucking, licking, sucking, and thrusting.
It made him want to cry. He wanted to cry each and every time he made her come. But those tears would be wasted. She'd get angry. She'd get up. She would run away. Then he'd be alone.
His mouth moved against her neck, he felt her frantic pulse pushing against his lips. She was close. Again.
She moaned and twisted, grabbing him with her legs, locking them around his neck. He had to hold himself up with straight arms to take full advantage of this position. He was practically on his knees as he continued to drive into her. She was using her hands and fingers now pressing against his chest, pinching his nipples, pulling and twisting them so hard he thought he might bleed. He pulled away from her, and reached underneath her ass with both hands, changing the angle so that his thrusts would hit her in that spot – the spot he knew would make her scream. Raising his head, he looked into her eyes. He wanted to watch her face as she came.
Then unexpectedly, she clenched her inner muscles, and surprised him. Holding his gaze, she looked into his eyes as he came. Slowly, gloriously, Spike felt himself release into her. From somewhere far away from himself, he thought how he must look as she squeezed the orgasm out of him. Probably like, she was holding a stake to his chest instead.
She reached up and touched his lips, closing his open mouth.
That's when he thought he saw her eyes smile. A small tiny shadow remained where the brightness had gleamed a second before.
He hadn't counted. But for what felt like the hundredth time that night, he wanted to cry.
The sun bathed her. It felt warm and fresh on her tired skin. She had to squint it was such a bright, shiny day. She felt so beautiful she almost wanted to skip as she walked through the streets of Sunnydale.
It had been that good. Being with Spike for so many hours with him inside her made Buffy feel, well, damn it – giddy. That was the word. She felt the “gid” of the giddy. His body pressed against hers. Doing all he could do to please her. His eyes, his beautiful eyes – everything he wanted she saw there – in his eyes. Yep, giddy. Buffy could think of no other word to describe how he'd made her feel.
Too bad, it never lasted, she sighed. That “gid” never made it from Spike's crypt to her front door. It was always the same. Skip, skip, walk, stroll, and drag tired feet down the cold street. No surprises here. The good feelings never lasted.
As her pace slowed, she replayed the hours spent with Spike over in her head. Deliberately, she hadn't looked at him, except for that one time. She tried never to look at him. She didn't watch him come (except for that one time) especially if he were watching her (as he always was or so it seemed). Even so, there had been something different. Usually, with each plunge and push he rammed into her, she felt his determination – to please her. His focus was without end. His body would strain above, under, behind or next to her – as he gave himself to her, completely. Even with her eyes closed, she could see that. Yet, there had been one time when he had stopped, only briefly and nearly unnoticed, he seemed to pull away from her – but not really. In that instant, she'd lost him. Her Spike had simply gone away.
She knew how close he was then, but she didn't let on. Her only thoughts were that this was it. It was really going to end. Finally.
Then the miracle happened, and he hadn't killed her. Spike had surprised her. Again.
She really wanted to skip.
Dawn stopped outside the gate of Spike's cemetery. Okay, it wasn't really his cemetery. But it might as well be. Seeing him was the only reason she came to this part of town. Be it the dead of night or during the mid-day sun – the only reason she'd ever venture willingly to a cemetery was for Spike.
Nonetheless, she was worried. They hadn't spent any real friend time together since summer – when Buffy was still under the ground. Okay, when Buffy was dead. There. She'd said it. Even if it was only in her own mind – she'd used the words. Buffy and dead in the same sentence. But that was no longer the case. Buffy was back.
Big deal, she wanted to scream.
Oh god, oh god. How could I think that way about Buffy? I love Buffy. I'm glad she's back. I missed her more than I thought I could miss anything.
horns & roses – part two
Loving Buffy was more than desire, Spike lamented as he emptied a second bottle of Jack Daniels down his throat and leaned back in his over-stuffed chair. It was torture.
Bleary-eyed, he tried to focus on the dimming light seeping under the crypt door. Sunset approached, and another evening with the Slayer was about to begin. Tossing the useless bottle against the wall dramatically, enjoying the sound of glass breaking then crashing onto the hard floor of his crypt, Spike growled in frustration. He was still bloody fucking sober. "How much does a bloke have to drink to get drunk," he shouted. Definitely not the way to start a night with the Slayer. His entire stash of Jack Daniels, diminished by half in an afternoon, and he wasn't nearly as sloshed as he needed to be.
“Ain't love grand?” he muttered, settling back in his chair as his mind began to wander aimlessly through the days and hours of his long life before fixing itself on a passage...a poem...no a damn sonnet!
"From fairest creatures we desire increase…that thereby beauty's rose might never die…but as the riper should by time decrease,” recited Spike, before bursting into a sound he hoped was laughter, and not the knotted groan he felt deep in his chest. "That's William Shakespeare, you bloody fool, not William the Bloody."
"What is needed is more Jack," he announced, saluting the empty room. "Can't have that William, that sorry poet named William, making a spectacle of himself."
Standing slowly and fighting the compulsion to fall forward onto the crypt floor, Spike scanned the room, searching for another full bottle of Jack while remaining motionless next to his chair. "No more William. Won't allow it,” he chirped, immediately recognizing (and loathing) his use of William's upper crust accent.
Then abruptly, Spike became aware of a noise - or knocking - he determined from the pounding he first thought resided only in his head. “Someone's knocking at my door?” he whispered, lowering his voice deliberately. Talking to one's self when no one was around was appropriate, he explained silently. Now if someone bloody hears, then it becomes insane or the babbling of a drunk. But he was bloody fucking sober!
“So insane, it is…” he whispered again.
Spike paused when the knocking he thought he'd heard a moment before returned. Couldn't possibly be the Slayer for another round, he thought; it wasn't dark enough yet.
"Oh yeah, never knocks, anyway,” mumbled Spike, ignoring the sound as he resumed his search for a third bottle of Jack.
There it was, Dawn sighed, “Spike's place.” Like a naughty movie Buffy never let her finish watching, Spike's crypt was a filthy, dirty hole where only bad girls went to be…well…bad…or at least that's what Buffy'd said. “Ewwww!” she'd squealed. “You can't visit Spike, Dawnie. End of discussion. His crypt is dark, cold, dirty and nasty. Only badness happens there, believe me.”
“Well, geez, he's a vampire, isn't he?” Dawn inhaled sharply, recalling Buffy's orders that simply didn't make sense. She'd spent loads of time with Spike when Buffy was gone. Being afraid of him never crossed her mind. Even when she was small, and he was really the Big Bad – he never tried to eat her. Still today she was a little nervous. Couldn't really pinpoint why, though. Perhaps, she'd spent too much time with her big sis, and some of her fear of Spike rubbed off.
Taking a deep breath, Dawn squared her shoulders and marched across the remaining twenty feet of cemetery grounds to Spike's crypt. Whatever the reason for her discomfort, she decided, “Gonna ignore it.”
Pushing the heavy door open, just enough to squeeze her slim body through sideways, Dawn craned her neck hoping to spot the blond vampire in the darkness of his chamber. The change from hazy sunlight to the dimness of Spike's crypt made it hard for her to see. “Spike,” she whispered, tiptoeing into the crypt. Not the big entrance her sister would have made, that's for sure. But Dawn didn't barge into anything like Buffy did. She sauntered. A little taller, a little more lithe, it was only right for her to claim saunter as the way to describe her style for entering a room.
“Spike,” she called again.
“Here, Nibblet,” he growled from somewhere behind her.
“Spike!” she squealed. Then determined to convey as much cool as her shaky voice could muster, she added, “Hey, how ya' doin'?”
“Dawnie?”
He sounded a little pissed. "What was that about?", she wondered.
“What do you want, pet?” he almost snarled. “And why aren't you in school? Still daylight out there, init?”
Spike was pulling on a dark-red shiny shirt, and buttoning it seemed somewhat of a problem, Dawn noticed. He kept cursing and glancing down; each look lingering longer at the button that didn't seem to want to go through the hole. And whoa! When had Spike started wearing shirts! Not black t-shirts, mind you, but a shirt with colors that freaking had to be buttoned? Dawn nearly asked him. But, he seemed a little too pissed, so she decided it might not be the time to discuss his wardrobe.
“Wanted to see you. It's been a long time since we hung out, you know.”
“Wanting to see me is no reason to skip out on the books, love.” He finally got the shirt buttoned; Dawn nodded to him, giving him her approval. He bowed slightly in response before stumbling over to the television set where finding the power button became Spike's new issue. He kept reaching for it, missing it, and trying again before turning to glare at Dawn as if she was the reason, he couldn't turn it on.
“You aren't looking so good, Spike. Is something wrong?”
“No, not really. Just had a busy night of beating back a few loose demons.”
“Didn't Buffy patrol with you?”
He laughed. “Yeah, she was…helping out quite a bit. She has a real knack for wearing a demon down."
Willow smiled and waved quickly to get Buffy's attention before plopping down in the booth near the front door of the Double Meat Palace . As usual, she arrived a few minutes before her friend's first break of the day – a little ritual the two women established after Willow nearly killed Dawn and drove Tara away. On those days when Buffy worked back-to-back shifts, Willow dropped by at 4 p.m. craving a vanilla-flavored soda and a small bag of fries. Willow needed to visit Buffy. Not for the food. She and Buffy relished their time together for grown-up-girl-talk away from Revello Drive and the forever pissed-at-the-world Dawn. Still Willow knew the drop-bys were key for both of them for a number of reasons, not just Dawn. It kept them from pulling their hair out about their never to be average lives. But no, not really, thought Willow, while twirling a few strands of red hair idly with her fingers. They were both damaged, sure, but Willow had never wanted to be average.
Then the fierce desire soaked through her, and the overwhelming urge almost toppled her to the floor.
"Magic," she whispered. Willow stifled a moan as she looked around the restaurant to see if anyone noticed the power surge that had flooded into the place. No, it was just her. Willow the Witch, getting the buzz, and yearning to cast a few million spells or at least use just a little bit of magic to make life easier, less lonely, and more tolerable.
As the power scorched over her, Willow exhaled slowly. For the hundredth time that day, she fought the desire that came with knowing if she wanted to change the world – she could – with a snap of her finger, a wiggle of her nose. Willow shivered as the surge waned.
Willow waved to Buffy again to make certain she'd been seen. Buffy nodded in response and turned to say something to one of her co-workers before grabbing a few items and ambling over from behind the counter.
Buffy dove into the seat opposite Willow, a small bag of greasy sustenance and a soda in her hands and a not so bright smile on her lips. Willow couldn't help but notice how exhausted she looked. Her friend wore the same dark circles under the eyes, puffy nose and dry lips that Willow had spotted on her own face in the bathroom mirror that very morning. Crying all night will do that to a girl, or was it screwing all night, or both? She tried to remember.
“Hey, Will,” greeted Buffy. “How are things on the home front?” The restaurant smelled like sour beef and mustard on a stale sesame seed bun, observed Willow as she watched Buffy snatch the uniform cap from her head and drag her fingers through her short bobbed hair.
“Dawn and I had another run in,” she began. “Her counselor called. She cut a few classes. Lied about it…you know, the usual.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” grumbled Buffy without emphasis.
“Yeah, we've got a ton of that,” Willow smiled broadly, as Buffy scooted closer to the wall, curling her legs up onto the bench.
Willow was committed to wearing a happy face on Double Meat Palace days. It made it easier for her and Buffy to start a conversation. Maybe they could even really talk, she hoped. Not just wait out the long silences in-between questions and answers neither woman really wanted to hear. Or, was that talking? She wondered.
“Seriously, Dawnie's gonna be the end of us, Will.” Buffy was rubbing her brow while staring at the bag of fries she'd placed on the table in front of Willow. “I'm really trying to get it. I know she's loves me. I love her. We both do.” She looked up at Willow, confirming that she'd meant 'her', before leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “I just don't get why she's so angry…with me. I know why she's angry with you…kind of makes sense. But me? All I did was get brought back to life. Is that so wrong?” Buffy cringed as if she'd been slapped by her own words. Willow could tell that something else had come into her mind, which was even less pleasant than the latest Dawn crisis.
“Hey, we'll be able to deal with this. I'll ask Tara to take her out or something,” Willow offered.
“Oh, you okay with making that call?”
“We're talking. Nothing big. Can't do big. But at least she answers the phone…”
“That's good,” Buffy paused, staring at the tabletop with such concentration; she appeared to be searching for her next sentence in the tile. "Just wanted to tell you that...okay, nothing earth shattering, now, but, maybe slightly, out there." Buffy stopped drawing circles on the table with her fingernails and looked up into Willow's eyes. “Last night, I felt really good for a while, Will. The slaying, and the just being me, felt good.”
Willow smiled sincerely. “How'd it feel…feeling good?”
“Feeling good?” Buffy answered with a question. “Mostly good and mostly unsure about what's good…you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” said Willow.
tbc