No Angel

Written by: Mint Witch
Author's Website





Summary: DARK FIC. Non-Redemptive. You've been warned. Graphic non-consensual sex and extremely adult themes
Warning: This fic is *foul* kiddies, and not in a fun way. It's dark, graphic, and perverse. Read at your own risk. This baby squicked *me* and I wrote it.
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
Feedback: Why the hell not. Flame me. I deserve it. This fic is *foul.* Mintwitch@yahoo.com





Buffy hunted the cemetery, senses hyper-alert and scanning the bone-yard for something -anything- to slay. It had been too quiet recently, and she was nearly jumping out of her skin with frustration.

"Finally," she snarled, as a familiar cramp in her abdomen signaled action. Buffy surged into a run, her instincts guiding her towards--

"Spike." She skidded to a halt a few feet away from the vampire lounging on a tombstone, tempted to stake him just for something to do. "When did you get back?"

"Few days ago, Slayer." He smirked at her. "Too bad you missed the party."

"There was a party?" she asked, blankly.

Spike rolled his eyes.

"No," he replied, with exaggerated patience. "That was sarcasm, Buffy. There was no welcome home party for dear old Spike." A grin creased his face and he leered at her. "Didja miss me, cutie?"

"Are you insane? Evil vampire, remember? Slayers do not miss vampires, even semi-ex-boyfriend vampires."

"Correction, love, ex-boy-fiend vampires." He hopped off his perch and slithered toward her. "And I think the lady doth protest too much."

She sputtered at him as he closed the distance between them until he was whispering intimately into her ear.

"I have a whole stack of While You Were Out messages that argue otherwise." He inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut at the dizzying perfume rising from her flesh. "Clem's quite the conscientious secretary, Slayer."

Buffy gasped as his hand rose to skim up her hip, over her side, and her nipples hardened painfully. She'd never denied that she wanted him.

Buffy wrenched away from the vampire, removing herself from the effect of his touch.

"What are you doing, Spike? Have you forgotten the extreme badness of the last time I saw you?"

"Oh, I haven't forgotten. I've spent nearly every waking moment of the past four months remembering it." He stalked her, driving her before his careful advance, until she stumbled back against another tombstone.

"But you stopped me, that's the thing. And now I have this question just eating away at my brain, all the time." He pressed against her, body fitted to body like puzzle pieces, and stared intently into her hazel eyes. "Would you have stopped me if I'd had a soul?"

"What?" Those seasonal eyes widened and one small hand fluttered up, as if to push him away. He captured it, holding it to his chest.

"You heard me, Slayer. Would you? Hmm?" He hooked a finger under her chin, turning her face from side to side. "I know what," he said with mock astonishment, "let's find out!"

Buffy was completely unprepared for the speed with which he moved. It had been years since she'd had to exert herself against him; even with the bathroom episode to remind her, she'd grown complacent in his presence. It was an unpleasant surprise that as she'd grown stronger and faster, so had he.

One minute she was staring at him like a snared rabbit, the next she was bent face first over the tombstone, skirt and panties ripped painfully off, Spike slamming into her from behind. Shock immobilized Buffy for a crucial second: in that instant, choices stretched before her, cresting and falling like waves while she lay paralyzed with indecision.

The moment passed and she struggled, fighting to find a hold on the slick marble, to throw him off. Her efforts only served to make it easier for him to pound deeper and harder, by thrusting her hips against his rhythmic assault. He held her in place with a forceful hand on the small of her back, while his free fingers played her clit like an electric guitar.

Buffy was sickened to feel her body respond, pleasure and despair fighting for dominance over her roiling emotions. The walls of her vagina fluttered around his thrusting cock. Tears and cries rained down onto deaf turf, falling unheeded as her struggles gradually matched his crushing tempo.

His voice was joyous and threatening as he sang his pleasure, "Yeah, Slayer, that's my sweet cunt, take it bitch, take it deep, deeper, oh yeah fuck fuck fuck!"

"Oh god, Spike, no, oh no, don't do this, oh god, please please please no don't oh no oh NO NO NO!" Her orgasm crashed over her, adding insult to injury as she arched into a bow, holding onto the stone for dear life. Tremors wracked her, sobs of humiliation an alto harmony to the vicious endearments of the demon still fucking her into stone.

"Scream for me, cunt, that's it, scream till you bleed. I'm gonna fuck you dead, Slayer, just the way you want it, oh yeah, my sweet, hot, whore. FUCK!" Buffy blacked out as Spike came hard, battering her against the monument.

The last thing she heard was his soft, satisfied, "I guess that's a 'no.'"

*

Buffy came to on her back, limbs splayed out on the grass. Spike was contemplating her exposed pussy, smoking a cigarette.

Frantically, she scrambled to cover herself, realizing with stunned clarity that he'd stripped and used her again while she was unconscious. She was sore and wet between her legs, and a strange lassitude slowed her reactions, even as her clit twitched and shivered eagerly. Buffy identified the symptoms with dawning horror: she'd come again, probably more than once, her body trained to relish every indignity in the months she'd used him in just this way.

"Oh, no, precious, none of that." A firm boot pressed against her abdomen. "We won't be having any of that now."

The shoe moved down, nudging her sex. "Open wide, baby."

"What?" Prostrate before him, she struggled impotently, imprisoned in her own contradictions.

"Spread those pretty lips, Slayer." He tossed his cigarette away. "I want to see your nasty cunt quiver for me."

Buffy writhed on the ground, fighting her response, but her hands obeyed blindly, spreading her labia to his sardonic perusal. Her face burned with rage and shame.

"Oh yeah, that's very nice. Now fuck it." The toe of his boot nudged her thigh, spreading her wider. She slid a single quick finger into her quaking vagina, then froze at his exasperated snort. "I said fuck yourself, Slayer."

Buffy moaned, closing her eyes against his gaze and thrust three more fingers in as far as they would go, her entire body flushing red and hot.

Spike licked his lips as he watched her helpless thrall, cock throbbing to be back in that slick heat. Reaching down, he freed himself again, and began to stroke, timing his orgasm to hers. When her cries reached their climax, he came onto her, admiring the slide of milky white jism against her golden skin.

Buffy's eyes snapped open, glazed and mindless, her hands moving up to rub his come into her breasts and belly. Oblivious, trapped in her own reactions, she licked her fingers clean as whimpers spilled from her throat.

The vampire purred and tucked himself in, eyes heavy-lidded with gloating fulfillment. "That's my girl, get it all. Don't want to miss any, do you, Slayer?"

His voice wrested her back to awareness and Buffy abruptly sat up, fumbling for her scattered and ripped clothes.

"I'm going to kill you for this, you sick bastard," she whispered hoarsely.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Wear red lipstick tomorrow night: I want to see it wrapped around my cock. Oh, and don't be so late, I've got a poker game at midnight." He looked at her appraisingly, his eyes as deep and cold as icebergs. "You know, you're good, but," he shrugged, "I can't see losing my soul over it."

He grinned nastily.

"Then again, I'm no Angel."

 


THE END



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