One Good Lay | Blood Dreams by Kim Gasper

Blood Dreams

Summary: Spike has a dream. Spoilers up to The Gift, Season 5.
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, et al.
Date: 24 Dec 01
Notes: This is post-The Gift and pre-The Barginning, and kind of weird and twisted, but there ya go. Such is the way my brain is. Many thanks to Linda for support above and beyond, and to Lisa and Janet for beta-ing, listening and suggesting.
**I wrote this last month and posted it just in one tiny place, before I realized it was going to become *such* an obsession in my brain. There is a second story all ready in the works and I thought I ought to share the first one before the second one pops up.
Feedback: kimgasper@earthlink.net

I have a dream.

The Slayer and me, we've bloodied each other; breath coming harsh and fast, muscles tense and aching, lips cut and swollen, red heat -- *life* -- leaking out in tiny, seductive rivulets. She raises her hand and wallops me again, smiling this shiny, satisfied smile when something crunches or pops under her blow. I smile back at her and spit blood, my hunger for her rising when I hit her in return, a fast, hard blow across her face. Another dribble of red comes from the corner of her mouth where teeth have scored tender flesh, tearing it, letting the bloodscent rise around us. My nostrils flare and my mouth waters and I'm so bloody hungry for her I can feel it like a living thing growing inside me.

Another blow, backhanding her, and my hunger for blood isn't the only thing rising. My cock is hard against my denims, aching from suppressed lust and one too many kicks to my groin. But it doesn't stop my desire, the raw *need* for her; it eggs it on, increases it. Violence is as much an elixir as fear; I wonder if the Slayer knows that?

I think she does; I see it in her eyes when she looks at me, sometimes. When she thinks I don't see. I know her better than she knows herself; better than that pouf Angel knew her. She needs the dark and I can give it to her.

But in my dream it's not denial that sends us raging; it's desire. She wants to hurt me and I want to hurt her, and it's a pain that creates pleasure as it flows back and forth between us. Sadism and masochism twined together, creating something burning brightly, flaring hotly, needing strength to take it and wring it dry, to quench our thirst. We have that strength.

I hit her again, send her flying across the alley, room, street, wherever it is we're fighting in this particular night's dream. She hits hard against the wall, or maybe it's the side of that old brick building that faces away from Main Street. I don't know; I don't care. It's my dream, my need, my bloodlust building higher. I don't wait for her to climb to her feet; instead I'm on her, covering her, the moment here now where I can take what I've been working for -- what we've been working for -- all evening.

All our lives, really.

"Spike!"

I laugh at the indignation in her voice; it makes her glare at me, heat flashing higher. Come and get me, Slayer. You know you want it. Push back, try to deny it.

"Slayer." Another laugh and she wriggles beneath me, legs coming around to hold me. She pushes me away with her eyes and pulls me close with her body.

"No." But even as she says it, she's laying back, head lolling slightly to the side for me, pelvis rubbing upward against mine.

I want to fuck her into the ground, bury myself inside her and with her and never come up again.

"You want it, too." My voice is rough; the demon is close, he wants what she has. I'm stronger than my demon though; I've had decades upon decades to learn how to control him. The bloody chip in my head doesn't hurt me; this is my dream and it's all I'll ever have, but at least in my dreams I can have what I want: I want the Slayer; I want what she can give me.

I used to kill them; this one I only want bloodied and hurting, bleeding for me to taste. Sweet, sweet, hot and coppery, slipping over my tongue. I lower my head and lap at her mouth, the taste blossoming across my tongue. She whimpers beneath me, hands coming up to my shoulders, digging fingernails into my coat. Clothing has no place here, now, and we're clawing it off each other as quickly as we can, reducing cotton and denim and those silky, sexy little knickers she wears to nothing but shreds in a moment.

She's bared for me, tits heaving where she's panting, trying to keep control while she has none in this place, this time, and I lean down and lick her face, teasing each cut and bruise before taking her mouth. Nothing sweet or gentle about it; it's a kiss meant to devour her, to claim her. She's mine and everyone else can sod off.

The second part of our battle is joined then; violence is our foreplay and our sex and it's hot and wet, dirty and nasty. The sort of thing you hide from your mum if you have any morals whatsoever. I have none and I make sure Buffy doesn't when she's in my dream. We roll and slide, biting and clawing at each other. She never tastes my blood and that's fine. I don't want her turned; I want her as she is, who she is. She tastes my skin, though, licking at me like a cat might; drinking my jism when I spill in her mouth.

I taste her, too, dragging my lips, teeth, and tongue down the length of her body. Pretty little titties, they're a rosy pink, blushing darker rose when she's aroused, nipples hard and swollen now from where I've suckled and bitten, chewed on them until she was mewling, hips arching and moving under me. Strong girl; I have to clamp down to hold onto her and sometimes I wish I had chains, or rope. A bound Slayer, totally at my mercy. Another night, another dream, maybe.

Her skin is soft and smells like something fruity, something that makes me think of warm summer sun and blue skies, things I only see now from the shadows. I bite a little harder than I should, a hint of fangs scoring her belly and she cries out, fear and arousal mingling together in a flavor so thick I should be able to cut it and swallow pieces of it. It coats my tongue, makes my cock hard again, ripe and ready to fill her, to plow until she screams. And it won't be the first of the night, either.

That's coming when I move downward and spread her open, thighs slick with her juices, the scent salty and pungent and completely Buffy. She whimpers when I slip my fingers through the wetness to tease her clit and it takes all the control I never knew I had not to toss off right then and there while I wank her, as well. But that's not what she wants, not what I want. I content myself to tease her for a moment, fingers diddling in the heat, my cock throbbing harder, my stones swollen and aching between my legs. For a moment I want to turn her over and take my pleasure in a darker, tighter place; so tight and hot I might lose myself forever. But not now. Not tonight. Instead I lick her, tongue tasting swollen folds, rubbing and flicking at her clit until she seizes up under me, the first scream of the night echoing in my ears and all around us. Then I can push her legs up and fall onto her, ruthless and tender all at once.

I always howl when I sink into her, so hot I should catch on fire, but wet enough to drown that one while igniting another. If I were still human, still a man, I'd still likely find a demon inside me when we shagged; she feels that good.

I bite her while I sink deeper, shoving myself into her. She groans, but from my prick or my teeth I can't decide. I don't drink; I won't do that, even in my dreams. I would...might...maybe lose control completely and drain her and I'm not sure how I would handle that. I don't want her dead. I want her alive and hot and moving beneath me, my name a gasp of air on her lips, blood-soaked, scented with life, with heat.

She arches under me and cries out again, a short scream that I cut off with my mouth, swallowing it whole. I'm close, so close, and I don't want to come yet, because being here, with her...inside her...part of her...is the closest I have to life. I told her once I was more alive when I died than I'd been before, and that was the truth before Buffy. She'd laugh if I told her that; she doesn't want my love. But here, in my dream, for just a moment, I can pretend. Hold it close and fast to my chest, a small, protected secret, a shred of humanity left to me.

"Bite me."

The soft voice, breathy and hoarse, startles me. I don't remember this part of my dream; it's new...or is it? Dark, shadowy eyes stare up at me and I see the promise lurking there, in the way she turns her head for me, baring her neck. I can see her pulse pounding just beneath the thin, beautifully soft skin and I lick my lips. She laughs and arches her back, her hands cupping my neck to pull me toward her.

"No--"

"You know you want it," her words echo mine from earlier, taunting me, teasing me, goading me into something I oughtn't do. But then, this whole dream is something I oughtn't do, so that doesn't really matter, does it?

"Yes." My voice, gone so hoarse, so thick, I can hardly get the bloody words out. "Slayer--"

"Bite me, Spike. Drink me. Show me."

Show her? I swallow hard and stare again, then the demon takes over, and I can't think any more about how bad this might be, even in my dream. Her skin is soft, so soft, no challenge at all for teeth that can rip and shred at will. I sink in, even warmer than my prick sinking into her, like a hot knife into butter, no resistance. And the taste, oh Christ, I know this, hot and wet, spreading over my tongue and down my throat.

She groans and tightens around me and I feel the first spasm rip through me as I slam into her, my pelvis rocking hard against hers as orgasm takes me, with the taste of Slayer blood in my mouth for the first time in decades.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake screaming, and if vamps could sweat it'd be pouring off me. What the bloody fucking hell was I doing, drinking the Slayer, even in my own dream? That wasn't what it was supposed to be about.

I can still taste the warm blood in my mouth; I can still feel her heat on my skin. Living heat.

Living.

Today makes one hundred and forty-eight days since we buried her. The only place Buffy still lives on in is my dreams.

And tonight, I killed her.

There are worlds of meaning hidden in that, I know. Some of it's subtle, some of it isn't. One more dream showing me my failure all these months ago; one more way to make me feel guilt I'd never, ever expected to feel.

I bury my face in my hands and weep.

The End

For the companion piece A Dream Is A Wish

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