I lost my virginity to him without so much as a whimper of protest. Maybe 'lost' isn't the best word to describe it, though. There's something so mournful about the entire thing when you phrase it like that. Looking back at it, I didn't loose it so much as I _gave_ it. 'Lost' seems like it should be spoken with a tinge of regret, a remembered fondness for what one no longer has. I didn't regret it then, nor have I since.
Things are rather blurred in my memory up until the point where I fell back into the mattress, driven down by his weight. There was fear and desperation, the scent of alcohol and a choking, broken voice all bleeding together in my mind. I felt his cool lips at my neck, a touch undecided as to whether it was a promise of pain or of pleasure. And what fear had numbed, anticipation suddenly sharpened within my mind. I close my eyes now and still recall the feel of his cold hand kneading at my breasts through the material of my sweater, the longing in his eyes as he looked at me...
I responded to look and touch in kind -- my own hands shaking as they slid across his chest, my eyes devouring him as his lips twisted into a smile. He was a demon, an enemy who had tried to kill us on more than one occasion and held Xander and I at that very moment. But his _eyes_. He looked at me as if I were the only woman in the world, as if every inch of flesh exposed was a revelation, every inch of skin perfection. He looked ready to worship me. To fuck me until I screamed. To destroy me.
There was gold beneath the blue in his eyes, a ripple of the demon beneath the smooth skin of his face, violence bled into lust. Had I talked about it, I suppose the others would have sorrowfully believed that I fell to the illusion of humanity he presented. I didn't. I saw man and demon, so close as to be nearly indistinguishable one from the other. And I wanted him -- I wanted a taste of the heaven his hands whispered of as they moved across my flesh, I wanted to touch the hell that watched me from behind sharp blue eyes.
He touched me with practiced strokes made hasty with need. His body moved against mine, caught somewhere between the urge to give pleasure and the urge to give into his demon's commands and approach me with a harder touch. I'm not fool enough to say that I wasn't afraid, but the fear I felt as I lay beneath his body was different from that I had known. I wanted him, pleasure or pain, so long as he touched me.
I clung to him as he rocked against me, felt the muscles shift and bunch beneath my palms. My body followed his lead, pleasure and pain shattering within me until all other feelings I had granted those titles seemed dull and shadowed. I tore into his shoulder with my teeth, smothering my cry against his skin, in the flow of his blood. His teeth were at my neck -- I wanted him to taste me. I wanted to share myself with him as he had with me.
They found us an hour later, Spike gone to find my spell-book, Xander still silent and unmoving at the edge of the bed. Back in the library, Buffy airily informed me that he had gone in search of Drusilla, aiming to torture her into loving him again. There was a part of me that cracked at that, wailing that what we had shared meant something. The rest of me firmly told myself to shut up. I had my own life to lead
Oz allowed himself to be drawn into my bed three months later. He was slow and soft and loving. It felt good. It wasn't enough. His touch was the kind of pleasure that once I would have termed intense, but Spike had proven to be but a mere hint of what was possible. Oz didn't seem surprised to find I wasn't a virgin, and I belatedly remembered his enhanced sense of smell. He had hugged me when he and Cordelia found us in the basement, and I can't say that our accommodations up to that point had been equipped with a shower.
He held me when I cried, his hand smoothing down my back. Though I didn't say anything, I think he knew that I cried for the heat within him. I longed for the coldness of Spike's body, his coolness to my heat, his death to my life. I was safe in Oz's arms, and I missed the danger in the vampire's. There was love in Oz's eyes, and I wanted the hunger in Spike's.
We were caught in a rainstorm one evening, the water dripping through our clothing and stealing the heat from our bodies. I didn't wait until we got inside, where his body would warm and flush. I tugged at his zipper, legs winding about his waist as my back collided with a wall. I pressed my mouth against his cool lips as he moved within me.
I was still in the beginning stages of my first semester at university before I saw Spike again. For a moment, I thought he was a dream. He was waiting outside the building where my class was taking place, sunlight washing across his pale face. I stood frozen on the steps, one hand clutching at the railing, the other flittering at my side. His hands rested against my hips, his face turning up as he looked at me. The whispered sound of my name shocked me out of my immobility. I hadn't even realized that he knew me as more than the Slayer's friend. I wanted to fling myself against him, touch the features lighted by sun, to recreate the feelings he had shown me once before. I stilled my motions with difficulty, leading him to my dorm room instead.
I knew that Buffy had classes for the next three hours, and I invited Spike into our room. We left the shades open as we fell onto the bed. He was as beautiful in light as he was in the darkness. My entire world narrowed down to him until I could see everything.
I made sure to take a shower once we were done. He left too soon.
They fought, Slayer and vampire as they always had, and Buffy tore the ring from his finger. She held the ring of Amara in her palm, her thoughts flying towards Angel. She granted her former lover the power, immortality, sunlight she had force away from Spike. He didn't say good bye before he left, chasing the promise in that ring. I had not expected him to. I carried the memory of him in the dull aching in my neck, the blossoming bruises along wrists and thighs. I stood naked before the mirror in our room, watching the evidence of his touch against my flesh.
I cried when Oz left, the soft, gentle tears that mark the parting of a good friend. My heart no longer beat in unison with his, and I could find no soul wrenching sorrow when Veruca's wolf called to his own. I understood attraction, dark, unwilling, undeniable. I imagine that it can be argued that his sins were lesser than my own -- natural and instinctive longings of the flesh to my desires, life to death, unnatural.
I waited, pretending that I did not. I waited until the night he stepped through the door of my room, the barrier holding him at bay long since dismissed. I held him to me, cold lips at my neck, as he shuddered with frustration and rage. I cried out with him as pain rocked through him, an undeniable warning against that which longs, what he _is_.
He waited, day upon day, before approaching us at Giles' house. He tells us that he hates us, eyes and words and body, and we believe. Each night I climb into his arms, flesh to flesh, life to death. I asked him once whether he would still hurt me, should he be able to once more. His eyes were hard and cold, lips mocking as he told me that he would not even hesitate. I think my answer surprised him when I told him 'good' and pressed my lips to his.
I have given myself to him, no regrets.
He is mine.
I am his.
~end~