The Fall Of Eagles
Written by: 1stRab-id
Author's Website
Summary: Buffy visits Spike at home and he has a present for her. Up to the Season Six Eppy, Tabula Rasa
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss,
Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
A/N: Plus there is some incidental poetry thanks to my buddy, Sabrina!
Feedback: I would love it, Pet. Rabid1st@yahoo.com
Buffy entered the darkened crypt an hour before sunrise. There was the faintest flicker of light coming up from Spike's downstairs abode. The Slayer hesitated for a fraction of a second and then crossed purposefully to the ladder. The electrostatic smell of recently run water and the tang of dark amber soap wafted up to her. They were clean welcoming scents at odds with the upstairs' aura of death.
She descended the steps. Her tread was light and quick on the wooden slats. But still he heard her. Of course, he heard her. He was waiting, fresh from his shower, the blood pre-heated in his veins. Spike lounged on his bed, wearing his black jeans and nothing else. His one knee was bent, the other extended. His hair was damply tousled. He didn't look up from his book. No need to seem too eager. Not now that the Slayer came to him, unbidden.
A terry cloth towel was draped over the footboard of Spike's bed. Buffy unbuttoned her coat and hung it next to the towel. She hadn't bothered to change. She hadn't showered. She had come straight from the hunt, perfumed with the mortal remains of her kill. Spike's nostrils flared in appreciation. The Slayer was filled with a singing sense of her own power. Her hunger for consummation was unbearable now that she knew what would make her whole. Spike so wanted to bring her to that release, time and again, night after night until there was nothing left of them but blood and ashes. But still he didn't look up.
"So?" Buffy said, in casual interest. "Whacha reading?"
"'A Few Figs from Thistles'", Spike said shifting the book so that she could see the title, "Edna St. Vincent Millay."
"Poetry?" Buffy asked, mildly intrigued. "I think I read one of hers once. Kinda morbid?"
Spike shrugged noncommittally. His beloved leaned over to examine the books stacked at his bedside. There were several volumes by the same author. Hair cascaded over Buffy's shoulder as she tilted her head to study the spines. She picked up a small leather bound tome and leafed idly through it. Spike shifted his hip, wordlessly inviting her to sit. The Slayer complied. Reopening her chosen book at a random page, she read aloud.
"Yet in an hour to come, disdainful dust,
you shall be bowed and brought to bed with me."
Buffy shot Spike a raised eyebrow look over the top of the volume. He was watching her but looked away as he quoted back to her from memory. The Slayer acknowledged privately that he had a voice designed for poetry.
"While the blood roars, or when the blood is rust
about a broken engine, this shall be.
If not today then later, if not here
on the green grass, with sighing and delight,
then under it, all in good time my dear,
we shall be laid together in the night."
Glancing down at the poem, Buffy humphed. She read on silently. Her blush washed a warm heat over her skin as she discovered her secrets spelled out on the page. It was all there the 'desirous body' and the 'shameful kiss.' She tossed the book, rather aggressively, back onto the table. There was a clink and the spinning glitter of falling glass. Instinctively the Slayer shot out a hand and stopped a bottle from shattering to the floor.
"What's this?" she asked, holding up the small yet surprisingly heavy cut-glass vial.
It was filled with a thick golden fluid and had a red ribbon tied around the middle. The Slayer pushed up the ribbon and peered at the label underneath. The writing on it was in some archaic script. She couldn't read the words.
"Open it and find out," Spike said, still reading, "It's for you."
Buffy cracked the seal and the most heavenly scent flooded the chamber. It was heady, erotic, and full of dark promise, like a night in a sultana's harem. Buffy was shocked to discover that she had an immediate, sticky, slickness between her legs. She closed the bottle hastily.
"Uhmmmm! Oh, my!" Buffy gasped, as a tiny orgasmic quiver ran through her.
"Thought you might like that," Spike purred, enjoying her fight for self-mastery. "Sappho's Nectar, meant to increase a lady's pleasure, as I understand it."
"So, this is your new plan to seduce me?" Buffy laughed, shifting uncomfortably against the restraint of her clothes. "Demon aphrodisiacs?"
"You want something. Come here to get it. Night after night. Thought I'd make you a present of it, that's all."
"I've told you that's NOT going to happen. And it is not why I come here..."
"Yeah, you told me," he shrugged, finally setting his book aside, "Take it and go home, then. No, law says you have to decant it here. Find a nice vibrator 'n get in touch with yourself."
"Of all the..." Buffy gaped at him at a loss for words.
"Or you can stay and use mine, if it suits you! You'd like that, wouldn't you? In my bed? While I watch? Could tell me it was all my fault in the morning."
"You have a vibrator?"
"Well, since I was shopping anyway," Spike caught himself up short on the explanation. "Point is, you don't really need ME do you? Least not until the recriminations start."
"That's right," Buffy agreed leaping to her feet. "I don't need you. I only came here to...to...be close..." she teared up then, quite suddenly, and sliced her hand sharply through the air. "Forget it! I don't even know why I came here...but I'm leaving."
"What? Did I make you feel all the wrong things?" Spike snapped, angry himself now. He sprang out of the bed as she gathered up her coat.
The vampire circled the furniture, stalking toward the spot where Buffy stood, holding her jacket and the bottle of elixir in a tight embrace. She was, quite obviously, not leaving. Not even attempting to leave. Her chin was set in defiance as he bore down on her.
Spike's eyes glittered with icy blue shards of light. He snatched the coat from Buffy's arms and hurled it back onto his bed. His violence jarred the glass vial she was holding. Golden fluid spilled into the Slayer's palm. She stepped hastily away from him, pushing the bottle's stopper in tight, as she sidled toward the head of the bed.
"I don't feel anything..." she said, hesitating briefly before adding, "...for you."
"But you want to don't you?" Spike prodded, seeking confirmation of her intent. "Isn't that why you come here? Why you keep assaulting me on the street corners and under the stairs of the public taproom?"
"We kissed," she corrected. "There was no 'assault.' This isn't the 19th Century, William! It's not like my reputation is in tatters from the shame of it all. It was just a kiss...or two."
"Just a KISS?!?" Spike snorted, shaking his head in amazement. "I'm not quite THAT dead, Buffy!"
The Slayer refused to meet his gaze. She was toying with his gift behind her back passing the bottle from hand to hand.
"You were only playing, then?" he sighed, when she failed to respond. "Kiss the corpse for a lark? What's the matter, Luv? Was it better than you expected? You pushed things a little too far, I suppose. Went a little too fast? Forgot to say 'Mother may I'?"
"May you what?" Buffy mumbled, barely listening to him. The thick oil dripping through her fingers enchanted her. She was mesmerized by the slippery heaviness of the cut-glass in her hand.
"Be your little sorrow or your little sin," Spike answered her, his voice a hoarse whisper. Putting out one hand, he lifted the hair away from her face. "Make you...penitent."
Buffy flinched as he touched her, but she didn't back away. There was nowhere left for her to go. Spike had her cornered between his reading table and his bed. Buffy fumbled the bottle down onto the tabletop just as his cool caress brushed over her cheek.
Gently, Spike traced two fingertips along the ridge of her jawbone, then further down the pliant curve of her throat. The Slayer tilted her head back. She closed her eyes and parted her lips ever so slightly to release a tiny sigh. Spike outlined the collar of her blouse, sampling the textures of lace edge and satin seam. His touch considered her velvet skin, the swell of her breasts and the deep valley between them where he hooked one finger. A tiny pearl button barred his way.
Buffy breathed out his name. And he caught it in his mouth. This kiss was like every other one they had ever shared. It was thoughtlessly primal, unyielding and submissive all at once. Theirs were open mouthed, tongue to teeth, bruising kisses that could make the undead gasp for breath.
The Slayer's fingers fluttered like startled birds from Spike's face to his shoulders to his chest. Her every touch anointed his skin with fragrant oil. Buffy breathed in the subtle perfume that engulfed them and abandoned herself to the powerful current of her own emotions. With his paramour chanting his name over and over, Spike ripped away the lacy confection of her blouse. The violent sound of tearing cloth and the ping of flying buttons only served to stir the frenzy between them. Tumbling unceremoniously onto the bed, they clawed and nuzzled and bit each other.
They were insatiable in this mutual desire, as savage as animals in heat. But the pain they inflicted on one another was incidental to the pleasure. An outside observer noting the brutality of their union might also have acknowledged the beauty of it. It was like the fall of eagles, talons intertwined or the coming together of lions, full of sound and fury. There was no intent to wound in their lovemaking only the spit and snarl that comes with the unleashing of something feral.
In very short order, Buffy was stripped to the barest essentials, silken lingerie and ankle-hugging leather boots. She stretched out in Spike's bed, spread-eagled against the creamy sheets. The Slayer's vaulted instinct for survival deserted her. She was shameless in her yearning for her demon lover. She writhed in anticipation of him. An inexperienced vampire might have killed her in the heat of the moment. She wouldn't have lifted a finger to defend herself.
But Spike couldn't kill her. He had no thought for any other appetite than the one he was currently abating. Nestled against his beloved, he suckled her through her bra. The translucent material was soon drenched with his frigid saliva. Buffy's nipples became hard knots under his tongue. He was becoming fluent in her. He stroked through the deep ripples of her hair with one hand. While the fingers of his other glided across the slopes and planes of her body. He discovered her and named her as his own.
"Off...Off!" Buffy murmured, tugging at the button fly on Spike's jeans. The intricate closure was beyond her passion drunk understanding, "Please, I need...OH!"
She came. Unexpectedly. From the stimulus of the cold wet cloth on her sensitive skin, and her lover's mouth teasing her. And the thought of him so close yet just beyond her reach. Buffy quaked. She dug in her booted heels and bit back her screams. Suppressing her orgasm out of life long habit, the Slayer strangled the ecstasy in her throat. But there was no containing the viscous fluid that flowed from her inner spring. It pooled out of her, soaking the small scrap of cloth that was all that stood between Spike and his personal Heaven.
Unable to resist a sample, the vampire slithered down to lap up Buffy's fresh squeezed juices. He tore away her last layer of modesty and gently parted her dewy folds. Dipping one finger into her, he found she was filled to the brim with frothy liquid. The Slayer was still trembling from her release and bucked up in response to his touch. Accepting the implied invitation, Spike slipped both of his hands beneath her. He cupped her supple behind and brought her to his lips like a goblet of honeyed wine. His first deep draught of Buffy Summers was so intoxicating that Spike abandoned himself then and there to his inevitable inebriation.
The alternating sip and suck, lick and thrust went on until Buffy thought that she would surely die. If Spike didn't stop what he was doing with his tongue, she was as good as dead. She could feel her heart clenching in her chest, thudding to a halt, each time he moved his mouth against her. Every whimper she uttered spurred on his relentless campaign. Buffy knew what he wanted. He wanted to make her scream. Nothing less would satisfy him. And the scream was there, just under the surface, sounding like a clarion in her mind.
'Let it go, baby," Spike muttered, between lingual kisses. "Come for me. No one will hear you. No one will ever know that you cried out for me. I swear, Buffy! I'll take the secret to my grave, if you just let it come."
And, finally, she did. Her first keening note gave way to a full-throated wail. She climaxed repeatedly this time, undone by her initial resistance. Bright embers danced behind her eyelids as she collapsed at long last onto the sheets. She lay there gasping as Spike laughed far back in his throat. Buffy snarled and with a sharp twist and shove, sent him flying off the bed. He rolled out of the fall, scrambling to his feet.
The Slayer sat up, catching him between her legs as he stood. She applied a warning pressure, even though Spike showed no tendency to pull away. With shaking fingers, she struggled to unbutton his jeans. He reached down, gently capturing her hands in his own.
"Get undressed," she ordered, rejecting his touch with a sharp slap and tugging at his waistband in frustration, "NOW!"
"Why you pushy, domineering, little..."
Reaching behind her, Buffy unclasped her bra. She shook back her hair as she slipped free of the restraint. Arching in front of him, she pouted out her bottom lip and met his eye in wanton challenge. Spike swallowed his protest and gave a quick nod of assent. With deft fingers he freed himself from his own confinement. Naked, he leaned in. Slipping his tongue into the Slayer's mouth, he fisted his hands in her wild mane.
Buffy savaged him, punctiliously. Spike stood by the bed while she sat on the edge, straddling him thigh to thigh. His erection nested between her breasts. He was already well lubricated. Thick golden droplets trickled along his turgid length. Bracing against the Slayer with both hands, Spike clawed his fingers into her shoulders. Buffy gripped him with the same confidence she employed with a wooden stake, pumping his shaft until he began to shudder helplessly.
She used her mouth on his abdomen, his chest and the blade of his hip, nipping, suckling, tracing patterns with her tongue but only occasionally assisting her talented fingers. Buffy Summers played him like a virtuoso, indulging herself. Spike tried to stop her but she was merciless. Her slick palm glided repeatedly over his sensitive tip until he came all over her. Spike popped like warm champagne, spurting along Buffy's tawny flesh, decorating her from throat to navel. Aftershocks convulsed in his gut, making him cry out.
"Slayer!"
She released him, pulling back to hold up her semen-coated hand between them. As Spike watched in speechless fascination, Buffy carried his cold seed to her mouth and sucked it from her fingers. Obviously relishing the honey-thick fluid, she dipped a second helping off of one breast. It was more than he could stand.
With a bestial growl Spike shoved the Slayer back onto the bed. Pouncing on her, he hammered his still rigid cock into her belly. It was a flawless union. Spike thought he might weep as Buffy folded herself around him, thrusting upward to meet his onslaught with an equal ferocity. He slid in and out of her more effortlessly than either one of them would have imagined possible an hour earlier.
"GOD!" they screamed together, overcome by an exquisite symphony of sensations.
"Hot"
"Cold"
"Tight"
"Deep"
"Wet"
"Hard"
"Love"
"Want"
"Need...Oh, GOD! So very much!"
Words failed them. But it was a long time before their endurance did. And it took even longer to sap the vitality from their united imagination. But finally, on the far side of sunset, they slept.
* * * * *
Buffy awoke with a sigh. She felt like a diver rising toward the surface of the sea. Eyes closed she eased into awareness. She noticed the deep fluid ache in her muscles as if she had been buffeted by rough currents. There was a gentle bruising at her very core.
The Slayer noted, in turn, the scratch of a blanket draped across her hips, then the cool whisper of air on her skin and finally the naked body splayed beneath her. She raised her head and the room swam around her for a second before she brought it into focus. Spike was sleeping half under her, with one arm wrapped about her waist. Even in death's slumber, his hand gripped her possessively.
Buffy tried shifting her weight and found her body slow to obey. If it hadn't been for the relentless call of nature she would have succumbed to her lassitude. Instead, she struggled to sit up. Achieving that with some effort she attempted standing. Her knees buckled and she slid bonelessly to the floor. Sitting cross-legged she glanced down and noticed for the first time that she was still wearing shoes.
"You can keep your boots on," a twangy voice sang in Buffy's head making her wonder where she'd heard the line before.
After a short rest, the Slayer managed to regain her feet. She tottered a bit, uncomfortably aware as she took her first steps, that she had been well and truly fucked. Buffy mentally added another item to her growing list of novel experiences.
Stooping to gather up her bra and slacks, she tossed them on a chair before making her slow way to Spike's bathing area. He had no toilet but his shower drained into the sewers and she was able to relieve herself over the opening. Nature served, Buffy twisted the taps on and stood with her weary head leaning against the wall. Not moving, she let the water wash away all outer evidence of her sins.
As the hot shower beat down on her, Buffy vainly attempted to put any thought of the last hours from her mind. Her treacherous body refused to cooperate. An inner ache led her time and again to the memory of Spike loving her. Desperately, she turned her thoughts toward Angel and a painful nausea twisted in her gut. The harmless fantasy felt so wrong that it shocked her. Like pedophilia or bestiality, sex with Angel seemed somehow twisted. She tried again, rerunning her most reliable wet dream: Angel, warm and human on the dining table...the mortification nearly doubled her over.
Riley on a poltergeist high, The Fifth Street Deli Guy, Bobby Langley from Chemistry 201, Brad Pitt, Jon Bon Jovi?they all felt the same to her now. Sickeningly sinful. Damn Spike and his evil smut potion.
"Straight to hell," Buffy groused. Totally appalled by this apparent side effect, she prayed that it was just a temporary aberration.
Eyes closed, she fumbled for Spike's bottle of body wash. The scent of Dark Amber teased at her nose as she poured a generous dollop into her palm. With brisk authority, Buffy scrubbed up a healthy lather. Then, she slid one soapy hand between her legs and mentally returned to his bed. It felt right. It felt wonderful.
A half hour later, as she zipped up her pants and squeezed the last of the moisture from her hair, the label on her gift caught Buffy's eye. There was a haunting familiarity about it now. It took a moment for her to realize what it meant. When it came to her, she dashed back into the bathroom. There, on Spike's body wash, was the same archaic writing. The body wash she knew the vampire bought (or more frequently stole) from Giles and Anya.
Buffy came back into the main room. Spike was still sleeping. She stepped gingerly to the bedside. Picking up the bottle of Sappho's Nectar and carefully holding it closed, she turned it upside down. There was a tiny mass-market label, machine printed in English, affixed to the bottom. With a sinking heart she read off the ingredients: Almond Oil, Eucalyptus Oil, Nutmeg, Sandalwood, and Musk...
"Oh, My God!"
Coming awake, Spike chuckled softly.
"Singing my song again, Luv?"
"It's ordinary massage oil," Buffy groaned, her mouth twisting ironically. There wasn't a doubt in her mind. Sappho's Nectar was a harmless commercial concoction. "Its not magical at all."
"Yeah," Spike yawned, lazily, before favoring her with his best smirk. "Innocent fun. They got a couple cartons of it gathering dust in the Magic Shop basement. 'Specially blended for and by my kind. Most humans can't even smell it. You can, o' course."
Buffy was appalled. She had given into Spike of her own free will. There was no spell or potion she could hide behind. All of that unihibited passion had come from inside her.
And he had ruined her for other men. How gothic was that?
"So..." Spike said at last, into the long silence, "are you going to kill me, then? Because if you are, I would like you to do that thing you do with your nails one more time. Might just carry me off and save us both a bit of bruising."
Buffy's eyes blazed as she turned on him filled with self-righteous fury. And then it hit her, the audacity of it all, the simple carefree sensuality that was Spike. Without warning, the Slayer dissolved into helpless giggles. It was the first time, since her resurrection, that Buffy could remember feeling truly exuberant. It may well have been the first time in her adult life that she'd experienced such an overwhelming joy.
"Oh, Spike!" she burbled, in giddy abandon as she collapsed into his arms. "That noise you make when I..." Buffy sucked in air and waved her hands unable to continue for a moment, "Oh, it was...priceless. And then with the vibrator...I just knew I was going to die from one too many orgasms. I kept seeing the Watcher's Diary entry..."
She twitched dramatically on the sheets, acting out the tragedy, "Ahhh! Ohhh! YEEEEAAAAGGGHHH....Whoops! She's gone!"
Spike laughed with her. Rolling over to pin her beneath him, he kissed her sweetly and then with more heat. He fumbled one hand under the pillows until his fingers closed on the hard length of the vibrator. As the device thrumbed to life, Buffy slid her bare feet along her lover's leg, gripping him prehensilely. Spike mentally added another item to his growing list of sublime experiences.
"You know, Luv," he commented, some time later, "with a bit of effort, we could really raise the literary standard on those sodding Diaries.
"And lockdown your place in Slayer History at the same time?" Buffy teased.
Shimmying back out of her clothes, she favored him with her best Wyndam-Pryce impersonation.
"I say, my dear fellow! Can this translation be right? If I'm reading this correctly...it says here he killed the third one by shagging her to death!"
THE END
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