Walls Of Jericho


Written by: Spirit


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Summary: Takes place immediately after Smashed - dark smut S/B
Disclaimer: Me like joss. Joss like pain. Me never seeing this again
Notes: How does one get rid of an obsession? One writes until it goes away.
Feedback: naughtyspirit@cableinet.co.uk


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The walls shuddered again, the last of the floorboards bouncing through and shattering in the basement. The din was rising, coating every layer and pounding each surface until it crumbled. Buffy had heard houses groan before, but she'd never heard one scream, aching as they tore it apart. The last beam holding the floor above creaked, and had she been looking, the crack running along its thick length would have disturbed her. But she didn't see anything, couldn't feel anything except him.

She felt his knees rise behind her as he braced himself to push up and gain more friction. Buffy pressed back, needing the contact and urging him to meet her rhythm. Minutes had passed since she thrust him through the wall and still the pounding thudded through her body. Hunger emptied out of her pores, spilling out in a thin sheen, heady and intoxicating, the only answer to which was more.

Spike gasped, rolling them over as the concrete gave way, knees pressing up behind her thighs, denim burning trails along her soft flesh. And when his hands pressed aside her head, she reached for him, still not close enough, still too far to go.

The beam creaked again.

"House is falling down," he grunted.

She ignored him, squeezing tighter, sliding her hands inside his pants, grasping each tightly fleshed cheek and drawing him in. She heard him groan, pressing deep inside her, the base of his cock rubbing blissfully where she needed it. And all the time the groaning grew louder, house spreading apart and succumbing to age.

"We could go."

"What? Where?"

His thrusting grew more impatient and Spike tried to think of anything, everything that wasn't her, that wasn't being inside her. He couldn't take his eyes off her, scared that he might be dreaming, that this might be yet another night of waking in his own obsession. But when he looked at her, saw the matched desire in her face, Spike couldn't think of anything but how she surrounded him, left him drowning and he knew for certain that he was an addict and would carry this until he met a dusty end.

Struggling, he got to his feet, hands gripping her ass tightly. And still she didn't stop, clenched around him, nowhere to fall except in her, with her. Moving as quickly as he could, Spike found the entrance to the nearest tunnel. By the time he reached it, his legs cramped and they fell back to the floor, fucking harder than ever. Skin licked leather and clung to salty liquid until fabric intervened.

Not lost yet. Not yet.

The beam crashed down where they'd been scant seconds earlier, barely breaking their concentration long enough to acknowledge it. Buffy glanced at the wreckage, lips parted until he found her again, enclosing her completely.

"Don't stop," she murmured as he tried to get up again.

Spike struggled to find his feet, trying to think long enough to work out how far away his crypt was. And how close he was to losing his mind entirely. She was there again, bucking furiously against his hips, mouth closing round that O as she rode it out, fluttering round him until he moaned her name. Slick wet white, passing slowly in the chaos, slowing them until she could breathe again.

He touched his hand to her head, fingers trembling as he struggled to keep control. Beneath him, she panted, slowly coming back to something like normal and scaring him immensely.

"Go now," she demanded and he stood, staring with disbelief as she clasped his hand.

She pulled him with a jolt, heading into the tunnels as the house threatened behind them. He paused only long enough to look at her face, see the need before he could go on, feet pounding on the wet floor. Kissed her with the passion she usually denied him and ran on, turning as soon as he was within the boundaries of his lair, her breath ringing in his ear as he reached for her again. She kissed him then, lips matching his until she gasped again, struggling to do anything that didn't speak hunger. Tore at the clothes on his back, pulling away shirt and jacket as his hands scrambled and shredded her own.

She didn't see the tattered remains, didn't look down long enough, launching herself onto him, pinning Spike to the bed as she stared at him. Took in the muscles she'd wondered about, caught her breath as she followed the line of wiry hair down past the ridge of his belly. And as she looked at him, really saw what she was doing, what she'd been doing, Buffy felt the knot in her belly tighten. And then there was no space, nothing but his hands, pulling her closer, newly naked flesh touching her own. With a deep breath, she clung to him, legs sliding over his until he found the right place and pushed.

Inside again, outside again.

"It's wrong," she panted, hands round his neck, hips grinding against his. "It's very wrong. It's..."

She broke off under the onslaught. Spike's fingers gripped her thighs, flipping her over and pressing down, feet grazing the floor as she arched beneath him. Very wrong, very unsafe, unsure and happening now. And she fought to gain control, fought to take a breath, come back to where she needed to be, but he was slick against her, tight and compact, muscles contracting where hers relaxed, hard and insistent until she was biting his shoulder, grasping at his flesh to find the release his body promised.

"God, Buffy," he moaned, hands sliding into her hair, grunting with the effort. Spike rolled his hips against her, feeling how she reacted to each thrust, repeating it when she caught her breath, watching until her eyes close before he shifted position, kissing his way down her body, waiting until her thighs parted willingly and she gasped at the flicker of his tongue.

Buffy looked at him, basking in the freedom of not thinking. She wanted to tell him to stop, begged him to continue, aware that this wasn't new, wasn't an act she was unfamiliar with, knew he could make her come with it. But this warm long tongue against her, teeth capable of biting down on the blood filled nub. This mouth that didn't bite. This was different. And she clamped her thighs round his head, pinning him to her as she thrust against his succulent mouth.

She could feel rather than hear the growl as she trapped him, tensed as his hands reached to free himself. But he never stopped touching her and Buffy rolled again, squeezing him tight and urging him on. As his hands gripped her ass, she found herself grateful he didn't breathe, didn't give her respite. It wasn't, couldn't be necrophilia if you were both dead. And as the thought thundered through her head, his tongue was inside her, lips closed round, sealing her off from anyone else.

His name hissed behind her teeth, but she wouldn't say it, muscles close to cramping as she struggled to hold onto this feeling. Just before, always just the few seconds before, when she could feel it building inside her, threatening to overspill and give her release. That was what she craved - the tension itself more than the relief of waves that felt to crush her utterly, spinning her round until she could hear herself screaming his name over and over. Screaming until he freed himself, covered her mouth with his own.

When she arched her back this time, she could feel every inch inside her, sensitive skin transmitting detailed information to her brain. 'You came back wrong,' he'd said, and Buffy didn't care. 'You might misbehave,' he'd said and he was right. She was caught here, tangled in obsession and need. Spider webs for breakfast as he tied her to him, fingers and teeth.

We fuck with our mouths alone.

And he wasn't a man, this thing, this equal whose bed she now shared. She couldn't shake the knowledge that she fitted inside every insult she'd ever thrown at him. 'You're nothing, you bring the house down. You are what my dreams refuse to show.' And as he took her there again, Buffy found his face, hands round his cheeks as she kissed him, teeth and tongue, wishful thinking, joined body and mind, soul left far behind.

Sex and death were the same. Hunger and the feed - claim to be a hero and shoot yourself in the foot. Fall down and down again, liberation only in a dead man's kiss. She whispered to him, asked him for the bite, asked in every gesture, submission non grata, end this now.

Make it last forever.

Grunts now, words lost, Spike unable to stop his hunger or her mouth. Do we skip straight to the kissing? Do we go beyond? And where did this go from here. Hell? Heaven? Sunnydale losers club for vampire fuckers?

"Don't stop."

He couldn't, didn't stop and Buffy could smell them, all around them now, thick with prophecy about his one good day. She was good, she was nice, she was perfect. She had returned whole. She was meeting her end as per required in the Slayer handbook she was never given, falling into then enemy's arms as many times as she could until the death set in.

'Every night I save you'. Every night? Save me forever? She rolled her head to the side, bared her throat and wait for him to save her now. But he only offered kisses, soft clean lips against her flesh, begging nothing but the moment. Asking nothing but to make this last eternally. He got to his knees, drawing her up with him until he found the edge of his bed, feet planted squarely on the ground. And still his mouth didn't leave hers. Still she couldn't say 'stop', still couldn't tell him it was enough.

Not enough now, never enough.

The bed creaked again, springs worn and tested waiting as they rocked together. Arms wrapped so tightly round one another that fingers met. Lean and fine, flesh covered death fucking into oblivion. Whispers of love omitted, replaced with the grunts and gasps of lust incarnate. Wearing each other out with demand, slick with pleasure and the release was always bittersweet. Always just a second out of reach. And when she called his name again, he clung to her, unable to let her go.

She slumped to the bed, sated and aware that before morning she'd want him again. Not want, need him again. And as she drifted to sleep, Buffy felt his body against hers, reassuring herself that need could be fulfilled here quickly, hand straying back against his thigh as his hand circled her waist. Wrongness banned from this moment, and his kisses lulling her as she fell. Everything still, all creatures of the night basking in its perversions.

Watch them now as they lie there.

This is how the dead sleep.


The End




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