Subliminal Influences
The Burn Away Series 1
Written by: PerleTwo
Author's Website
Summary: Buffy watches Spike in a private moment. S2, set during Innocence.
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss,
Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
Feedback: perletwo@yahoo.com
Spike watched bitterly as Angelus and Drusilla left the factory hand in hand,
followed by the Judge.
The look of bliss on Dru's face was almost more
than he could stand. What he knew would come next, now that her 'Daddy' was
back, was liable to be the death of him.
If he could only get out of
this damned wheelchair!
Carefully he used both hands to ease his feet off
their braces and set them down flat on the floor. He took a deep if unneeded
breath to clear his head and focused his whole being on sending commands to his
lower extremities, starting with his toes.
So concentrated was he on
forcing a response from his damaged limbs, he didn't notice the tiny click of a
door opening, the scuff of careful footsteps or the scent of death that hung
around the Slayer, fresh from Angelus' latest murder
site.
* * *
Buffy
crept slowly around the factory's anterooms, looking for any signs of vamps in
residence. All the minions seemed to have disappeared, including the guards. If
that meant Angel was unprotected, so much the better.
But every room she
looked in was empty.
From an upper level her sharp Slayer hearing
detected a voice yelling, "BUGGER!" and a crash. Carefully she crept back down
and made her way to the main room, stake in
hand.
* * *
Having
so little success for all the exertion he'd put into trying to move his legs,
Spike howled in frustration and swept the crystal bar set and decanter of whisky
off the table. He caught the bottle of booze just in time and set it back up. No
sense in wasting good alcohol. He had a feeling he'd need it before the night
was out.
From her hiding place in a niche behind a big piece of rusty
machinery, Buffy watched Spike bend deeply at the waist and pick up the larger
chunks of shattered crystal. He groaned a little at the extreme stretch, and the
sound pricked a little something in her memory - Angel making a similar noise as
they'd undressed each other during their one night together.
Pulling back
up straight, Spike was surprised to feel a slight stirring in his groin. As he
set the broken crystal on the table with his right hand, his left rubbed lightly
at the crotch of his jeans, testing. Yes, definitely a real sensation there, not
just the sudden change in circulation when he'd bent over.
{{Well, it's
in the wrong place, but at least I know the equipment still works,}} he thought
wryly.
Closing his eyes, he took in an experimental breath or two and let
his mind drift. In a moment an image swam into focus behind his eyelids: the
Slayer, standing resolute before him in the school hallway, wearing a
scoop-necked little white tee and a light-green skirt, criminally short. Tanned,
healthy and tight, with sun-kissed blonde hair and ripe pink lips. Scents of
lemonade and sea spray cologne overlaying the primal smells of dust, sweat and
strength.
Magnificent.
* * *
In
her hidey-hole, Buffy's eyes widened when she saw him turn the wheelchair
slightly, unbuckle his belt and open the fly of his jeans. Then he used his
hands against the armrests to lever himself up slightly and eased the jeans down
past his knees, rearranged himself in an open-legged slouch and maneuvered his
legs out in front of him.
Buffy's breathing deepened and she pressed a
fist to her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping. Spike's new position had him
sitting in a pool of moonbeams from the skylight, effectively spotlighting his
bare thighs and erect cock. This was a new sight for her; Angel had never let
himself be so openly sexual with her, and she'd never been close enough to
anyone else even to request a look.
Now she had a perfect view, and she
couldn't tear her eyes away. The moonlight cast a bluish glow over his
milk-white skin, and he looked like something carved from marble she'd expect to
see in a museum.
Blushing, she forced herself to look up to his face.
She'd never had the chance to examine his human mask, although the fight at the
school had given her an up-close and personal look at him in game face. His
features were smooth and even, muscles relaxed, and she realized suddenly that
he looked very young, younger than Angel. {{He must not have been much older
than me when they turned him,}} she thought.
Her breath caught in her
throat when she saw Spike's hand come up, running his fingertips along the
length of his
cock.
* * *
The
sudden appearance of his mortal enemy in his fantasies was a bit of a surprise,
but not a very troubling one. She is a beautiful little chit, Spike thought,
resilient enough to give me a helluva ride, and if my subconscious wants to have
a little fun with her, well....
His mind's eye replayed the fight in the
hallway. {{They make me feel all manly,}} he remembered saying, and his hand
came up to brush lightly over his cock as he'd wanted to right then that
night.
He'd had no business fighting as close to a Slayer as he had then,
but he'd wanted direct contact, so he'd pulled her in close. Got to know the
feel of hard muscle under soft skin, the glints of gold and gray in hazel eyes,
and that glorious musky scent of blood, power and arousal only a Slayer could
produce. His imagination summoned the potent mix of pheromones again, and fluid
began leaking from the tip of his penis as he let it wash over
him.
{{Cor, if I could bottle that scent every vampire on Earth'd be my
slave...}}
* * *
Buffy
cursed her Slayer senses for being so closely attuned to the presence of vamps.
Her breathing had unconsciously slowed to match his, and her nose had locked in
on the sudden flood of scent emanating from his cock. Like lemons and salt and
something cold and tangy like vodka to thin it.
She suspected a normal
female wouldn't notice the scent even if she were in close quarters with him,
but it made its way through her sinuses, down over her palate and tastebuds and
into the hinges of her jaw, making her salivate.
When she saw his hand
close fully around the base of his erection, blood suddenly rushed from her head
to her groin, and she felt momentarily dizzy. Her vision swam, but then locked
into focus on his hand as it began to
stroke.
* * *
Lost
in imagination, Spike's cock twitched in response to the heady musk his mind had
conjured, and he took himself firmly in hand, swiping his palm down from the
dripping slit to the base to coat himself with moisture. Closing his eyes, he
thought the memory of the Slayer's scent was so intense it could almost be in
the room with him now.
Groaning breathily at the thought, he let his
hand slide firmly up his shaft, squeezing slightly tighter just below the
bulbous tip. In his mind's eye he had the Slayer pressed up against the wall of
the hallway, top shredded open to reveal bare breasts, and the grinding of his
hips into hers was forcing her little skirt to ride up ever
higher.
Although he was too lost in the fantasy to realize it, Spike's
hips had begun a rhythmic twitching motion in time with his motions in his
head.
His dream-Slayer's eyes were closed and she was moving slightly in
rhythm with him, making him even harder. Her nipples tightened into sharp points
and, glassy-eyed, she began pulling and tearing at his shirt. He could almost
hear the breathy little gasp escape her when her hands reached his
skin...
* * *
In
the shadows, Buffy felt her nether lips swell and rub uncomfortably against her
panties when she saw his hips start to rock in the chair, and she shifted from
side to side and pressed her thighs together trying to adjust them. She managed
only to bring a flow of musky wetness down to suffuse the thin
cotton.
Across the room she saw Spike's tongue come out and sweep lightly
across his lips. Her own mouth went dry and her nipples hardened against her
shirt.
Desperate, Buffy eased a hand into the waistband of her skirt to
shift her panties. She saw his thumb sweep across the top of the head of his
penis just as her index finger accidentally pressed the damp fabric against her
stiff clit, and a tiny gasp slipped from her lips.
The tail of his red
overshirt slipped down over his hand, obscuring her view, and she wished briefly
he'd just take both the damned shirts off. She was startled to realize he'd done
it almost simultaneously with her thinking it, but that evaporated as she took
in the expanses of newly bared skin and his hand began to move along his length
again.
Quite without thinking, Buffy let her own hand begin to move
against herself in time with
his.
* * *
The
hallway in Spike's mind was perfumed with the smells of violence and female
arousal, and it clouded around them thick and strong, feeding their appetites.
He and his dream-Slayer were both naked now, and he brought one hand down to
squeeze hard at the base of his cock, to keep from going over the edge at the
vision he'd conjured.
The dream-Slayer's legs were moving against his
awkwardly, lifting up around him and trying to find some purchase. Spike's head
rested on her breastbone, and he licked between her breasts up to the base of
her throat in one long sweep, drinking in the sweat and dust and pheromones.
Then his mouth skimmed down her skin to catch a tensed nipple in his
mouth, suckling hard, and he felt her entire body arch into his. In the same
motion his hands slid easily down her back, over her tightly muscled ass and
down the backs of her thighs to pull her legs up around him. He lifted her up
and positioned the head of his cock at the right spot, and in the factory the
motions of his hands stilled momentarily as he considered.
Slayer's very
young, he thought briefly, only had Angel that once an' with him bein' all
soulful for so long that's prob'ly as much as they've ever done...she'd be
virgin-tight an' totally unskilled...
Both his hands grasped his cock
firmly at the head and shoved down as his hips thrust up hard. He imagined the
breath exploding out of the Slayer's body when his cock forced its way up her
quim in one long hard stroke, stretching and probing at her inner walls, and he
groaned from deep in his chest.
Then his hands began their stroking
rhythm again in earnest, picturing the Slayer gasping and writhing
arrhythmically around and against him as he moved inside
her.
* * *
Buffy's
skin had grown so hot she was amazed she wasn't glowing like a lit coal ember in
the shadow of the derelict machine she was hiding behind. Her breathing was
coming in short, convulsive gulps for air, and every nerve and muscle in her
body was concentrated on the motion of her hand inside her panties.
By
the time his hands hesitated in their stroking it had become uncomfortably clear
the panties had to go. She slipped them down her legs as quickly and smoothly as
she could, cursing the slight hissing noise the fabric made sliding along her
skin.
In the next instant, her fingers had slipped up the insides of her
thighs and insinuated themselves between her silky inner lips, coating
themselves in her fluid. A tiny sigh fluttered at the back of her throat. Much
better. Smoother to touch, easier access, richer sensations. On her knees, she
rose and dipped back down on her hips, intensifying the friction against her
hand.
The long middle finger of Buffy's working hand had just made its
first contact with the wellspring of molten liquid when she saw Spike's hands
draw up tight around the head of his cock. Unconsciously her body arched up on
her knees in tense anticipation and she fought down a loud gasp and groan when
his hands slammed hard down his shaft, connecting with his hips' solid upward
thrust, and he began working himself over in earnest.
Her own hips sank
down onto her hands as first one, then two fingers slid up deep inside her
channel. Soon it wasn't enough to stretch her as fully as her body demanded, and
she added a third finger, moving constantly. The air around her felt thick and
heavy with desire, and Buffy felt like she was swimming - all her muscles and
sinews moving easily and without thought, helped by the weight of the medium
they moved her through, working steadily towards her goal.
Mind empty of
thought beyond immediate pleasures, she was unaware her body had instinctively
matched its movements to
Spike's.
* * *
Spike
was completely lost in the erotic images his mind had conjured. His body was on
autopilot, and the fantasy in his head had taken on a life of its
own.
His fantasy-Slayer had found his rhythm at last and was using her
strong legs, locked around his waist, to guide him in and out of her.
Low-pitched noises were pouring out of her with each breath, gasps, growls and
moans he met with his own inarticulate sounds. Her hands were moving constantly
over his shoulders and back, grasping and fluttering inexpertly, and he felt his
cock pulse heavily at each imaginary touch.
Spike's breathing had grown
ragged and his hips were starting to fight the stroking rhythm of his hands,
desperate for more sensation. He tightened his grip around his cock and let out
a strangled gasp. His head fell back and his eyes closed as his fantasy-fuck
convulsed in the first throes of her orgasm, a hoarse scream hovering at the
back of her throat and begging to be let go.
He thrust up convulsively
once, then twice more, howling in pleasure. Thick, creamy liquid shot from in
spurts, arcing outward to the floor on the first thrust, then back onto his
belly with the second and third. Then he sagged limply into the wheelchair, a
puppet with its strings
cut.
* * *
Buffy's
eyes widened as she watched Spike draw near his climax. Low, glottal sounds
emanated from the back of his throat and reached her ears, sending fiery sparks
shooting down her nerve endings. Her own hands and hips were working against
each other with just as much desperation as his, all the tensions and
overwrought emotions of the past two days pooling in her groin.
Her eyes
opened wide at the first shot of semen, pooling on the floor. Her mouth watered
and a tingling numbness swept over her whole body, drawing all her nerves up
tight just before she shattered. It took all the reserves of strength she had
not to cry out at the force of her spasms. Then she collapsed weakly back onto
her heels, still trembling and twitching from aftershocks.
In a
blank-minded daze she watched Spike loll in his wheelchair, utterly, bonelessly
relaxed. The same languor was seeping into her own bones...but her mind was also
coming back to itself at the same time. Her cheeks flamed in shame, and after a
moment's frantic searching she grabbed her stake and fled, feet suddenly clumsy
under her.
Angelus wasn't here. He wasn't coming back. If she wanted a
showdown, she'd have to go out and find
him.
* * *
Once
outside, Buffy gulped in great lungfuls of cool air, trying to control the
shakiness in her legs. Icy bolts of shame and rage ran down her spine at the
thought of what had just happened.
{{Angelus. It's all Angel's fault. If
he hadn't...oh God if he hadn't come out...I wouldn't've...and
Spike...}}
She thought back to the raiding party Spike led to the school
on Parent Teacher Night. The powerful, confident...virile...master vampire she
met that night would never've been reduced to jacking off alone in a cold, empty
machine shop if Angel hadn't taken over his turf...and his woman?
Another
image flashed into her mind: the glimpse she'd had of Drusilla falling into
Spike's arms when she'd thrown her hostage at him in her mad dash for the
triple-reinforced door, the night Ford trapped her for Spike. Dru had clutched
fearfully at Spike, moaning, and he'd been simultaneously strong and soothing
with her, distracted enough for Buffy to make good her escape.
She
wondered if Spike realized how much of his range of motion he'd recovered.
She wondered how it would come into play when the final showdown
came.
That trick she pulled the night Ford died wouldn't work on Angel,
though. He'd let her dust Dru before he'd give her up. After all, he could
always make another girl of his dreams. She had an uncomfortable feeling she was
a leading candidate, in Angel's twisted mind.
She'd kill him before
she'd let him make her into Dru.
Trouble was, that still left her - and
Spike - all alone and out in the cold. Nobody to love or be loved
by.
Damn
Angel.
* * *
A
slight stumbling noise roused Spike from his reverie and brought his senses to
full alert. Slipping into game face, he applied his vampire senses to spotting
anything out of place.
An alien yet familiar scent reached him. There it
was. The Slayer.
He hefted his feet back onto the pedals and wheeled
around the room, following her spoor. She'd definitely been in the warehouse
with him. No wonder he'd fantasized about the chit so strongly; he'd been
picking up subconscious cues from her presence.
He should've spotted her
sooner.
Damn Angel.
Damn Dru.
Ah well. At least he'd given
the nosy bint something to look at...The thought of her watching him, not
knowing he was wanking to a fantasy of shagging her 'til she screamed, made him
smile.
Rolling around to the edge of a rusted out piece of equipment, he
realized this was where her scent pooled the strongest. He'd found her
hidey-hole, apparently. A flash of white caught his eye in the shadows and he
rolled forward, straining to reach it. A buzzing of realization started up in
the back of his brain, but his fingers snagged the bit of white stuff before it
could make his way up to the top.
In his hands was a pair of white silk
panties, cotton at the crotch. The silk was damp with sweat, and the cotton was
wet through with the Slayer's arousal. An experimental breath sent the smells
straight to his brain, short-circuiting his nervous system with pleasure
momentarily, and he groaned. His erection was returning, and he
shifted.
Then stopped still, realizing what he'd done.
He'd moved.
All the while he was tossing off in the wheelchair, he'd been moving
like he was doing a damn rhumba.
And when he'd stretched out to get the
panties, his pelvis had lifted up to push him further out.
Spike felt the
weight of dark depression lift off his shoulders, and he laughed out loud. He
was getting better. Slowly. But enough to give him hope. Soon he'd be able to
kick Angel on his ass, and take his Drusilla back. Show her exactly whose woman
she was.
{{I'll be damned. Thank you, Slayer.}}
Still laughing, he
wheeled back to his starting point and finished dressing. The time and labor it
took seemed less aggravating this time. On second thought, he undid his belt and
fly again and mussed his shirts. Leave the pool of spunk on the floor. Let Angel
get a good look at how pathetic he'd made him.
Then he snagged the
crystal decanter off the table. He doused his shirt liberally with whisky,
wrinkling his nose a little at the strong smell, and after a moment's thought
tucked the Slayer's panties into an inside pocket of his duster. Then he wheeled
back to her hiding-place and hurled the entire decanter to the floor, giggling
as it shattered.
That ought to do it. The whisky would mask the Slayer's
spoor. Bad enough if Angel realized she'd been here. If he caught her scent on
him, he'd go up like a rocket. And it wasn't time for that.
Angel'd be
only too happy to believe he'd drunk himself raging stupid. When he heard the
raiding party come in he'd start singing Do Ye Ken John Peel several keys
off-plumb. That one always made Angel wild with rage. He'd go away thinking poor
ol' Spike was even dumber and more helpless than he thought....
{{That's
the spirit, pillock. Get comfortable. Make yourself at home,}} he thought. {{An'
then I'll burn it down around you.}}
Unconsciously his hand patted his
duster pocket. He'd keep the Slayer's little souvenir to enjoy at his leisure.
After Angel'd taken Dru to bed, maybe.
Oddly, he got the same sense of
comfort from it he always felt when he had a knife or a gun in that pocket.
Continued...
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