CRAVINGS
Written by: Laure Alexander
Author's
Website
Summary: Well, this time I succeeded with the dark
angst. This is not a pretty fic or a healthy
relationship, but I wanted to explore this possibility. Maybe
this is how it will go on the show, maybe we'll get hearts and
flowers; dunno; I'm just thrilled we're getting
anything at all!
Spoiler: About two months after "Wrecked", inspired
by the biting line.
Content Warning:Graphic sex, language.
Distribution: If you like it, just ask; I've never
said no. If you have my permission, please take.
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy and friends or Buffy
the Vampire Slayer; they're owned by Joss
Whedon and Fox and thankfully UPN because we get
nekkid Spike! No copyright infringement intended so
please don't sue.
Email for Feedback: Please, please, please. No flames, please.
laurealexander@hotmail.com
"You're going to crave me like I crave blood, and
the next time you come calling, if you don't stop being such a
bitch, maybe I *will* bite you."
~~~~~
Two months later she sits at her dressing table
carefully applying
concealer to the bite mark on her neck. It will
heal by noon. It
always does. Her face is a mask, beautiful yet
cold, as if all
emotion had drained from her with her blood.
If she cared, she'd turn a critical eye to the
circles under her
eyes, the sharper cut to her cheekbones and chin,
the unnatural
pallor.
But, she doesn't care.
She's still just going through the motions.
The only time she feels alive is when she's in his
arms, and, deep
inside herself she knows that's what he wants. He
wants to be
the only one to make her feel. The only one who
understands.
Because that gives him power over her, and when
she's laying
beneath him, or even on top of him, she's in his
power. He has
all control.
Hers was lost two months ago.
As the building fell around them, her resistence
fell as well. With
brave words she fled the next day, put up garlic and
stayed
awake all night holding a cross.
But, she knew it wasn't over. No matter what she
said, how
often she denied it to him, to herself.
It still isn't over.
Her defenses are meager at best, and after two
months have
simply become a show. A show he laughs at.
He enjoys the pain she gives him.
The night before, he came at midnight, brushing
aside the ropes
of garlic in the windows, barely wincing at the pain
wrought by
touching them. She held up her cross and he grabbed
it, letting
it burn him, laughing coldly as it did, before he
flung it across
the room.
Throwing her on the bed, he straddled her struggling
body,
catching between his fingers the consecrated silver
cross she
wore around her neck. Together they watched his
hand
smolder, acrid smoke rising to choke her, to shroud
his face
from her as he ripped the necklace free and dove for
her neck.
As his fangs sank into her flesh, nicking the
artery, sending
pulses of both pain and pleasure through her, her
resistence fell
away, her struggles ceased. Helpless, she lay
beneath him
caught by her own desire, as the monster above her
drank her
blood and fondled her breasts with knowing hands.
He was heavy on her, but her body was made to take
his weight,
and she shifted slightly, parting her legs so he
could rest
between them. She felt his fangs recede, replaced
by his tongue
as he lapped roughly at the tingling twin wounds,
and a shiver
went through her as she imagined that tongue teasing
other
parts of her body.
As he moved against her, simulating sex, she grew
wet, her
pulse racing, her breathing quickening. His
erection pressed
intimately against her mound and she moaned softly,
arching to
him.
He chuckled, and she knew she should get angry, but
the desire
was too intense, and all she could do was clutch him
to her. His
hands roamed her body, his touch possessive and
smug, and all
she could do was surrender.
She didn't know anything else anymore.
One of his hands slid between them, probing between
her open
legs, and his crow of satisfaction at finding her
hot and wet and
willing, made her cringe, but her body squirmed,
dancing
beneath his stroking fingers.
When he kissed her, she could taste her own blood,
but it no
longer sickened her. She could taste his desire as
well, and his
love.
He loved her. She knew this. But his love was not
sweet. It was
not tender or gentle or even loving. It was
passionate and angry
and violent and possessive. For months she'd been
able to deny
it, to brush it aside, secure in the knowledge that
she would
never let him touch her, so his love for her had no
meaning.
But, once she let him touch her, she should have
known it would
never end. Just as he had claimed after that first
night, he was
under her skin.
And he wasn't going away.
He would never go away.
His hands moved quickly now, unfastening his belt
and
removing it. Lifting his head, he looked down at
her flushed
face, the dazed look in her eyes, and smirked. He
watched her
eyes flash to the belt, saw the memories spark, and
brushed the
leather gently across her cheek.
He'd used it on her before, strapping her with it
until she cried
out in pain and bucked in pleasure, binding her with
it to the
bed post so he could take her violently from behind,
using it as a
leash around her neck to force her to her knees for
his pleasure.
Once he'd even let her beat him with it, but only
because he
wanted it. He was always the one in control.
As she shivered beneath him, he tossed the belt
aside. No need
for it tonight. She was open and hungry for him,
and the heady
scent of her desire was making him dizzy. His hands
quickly
freed himself, shoving the tight denim down for
comfort, as her
own hands yanked her t-shirt up and out of the way.
There were no panties to hinder him. She'd stopped
wearing
them at night after a week of having them ripped
from her and
sometimes used to gag her cries.
With an easy thrust he was inside her, and he
groaned as she
clenched around him, wonder flooding him as it
always did at
the feel of Slayer muscles and human heat and her
own sweet
wetness. Her legs rose around his hips, her body
moving with
his, squirming and thrusting, pelvises grinding
together. His
hands found hers, the fingers entwining, pressing
down into the
pillow on either side of her head as they moved as
one.
It was always like that.
Sometimes it was so tender she wept, sometimes it
was so hard
and fast she shrieked, but the end result was always
the same.
The pleasure was more than she had ever imagined.
Not simply the physical pleasure, although that
always amazed
her and left her breathless, but the pleasure of
knowing she was
doing something wrong, something wicked, that she
was fucking
a monster.
That she craved a demon's touch and kiss and bite.
The pleasure all that induced in her was perverse.
And she reveled in it.
His preternatural skill at every simple and
intricate act of sex
brought her to multiple orgasms until her body
reached the point
at which it was nearly too painful to continue.
Only then did he
give into his own pleasure and pound into her, her
cries silenced
by his mouth on hers.
And so it was the same that night as they fucked
each other for
hours until they were both drained and exhausted and
quivering
in each others arms.
When she found the strength, she raised her head and
muttered,
"go away," in an unconvincing voice.
And he chuckled and slid his fingers into her and
readied her for
more.
*****
The expression on her face haunts her, and she turns
away from
the mirror. Rising to her feet, trying to ignore
the twinges in her
thigh muscles, the aching deep inside her, she
dresses and
prepares herself to face her friends, her sister,
the world. There
are bills to pay, laundry to do, groceries to
purchase. Lots of
little things that need to be done every day, and
she'll do them.
But, she'll do them all in anticipation of the
coming night, and
his return.
Because she knows he'll be back. He always comes
back.
And she always lets him.
The End
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