Sweet Release
"I died, somany years ago, you can make me feel, like it isn't so"---
This was what he'd dreamed of, what Dru had promised all those years ago. Dreams of a passion that sketched words on parchment could not begin to capture. To feel this intensity. Rich, dark emotions, coursing through his veins. He felt his heart swell, the ebb and flow of every feeling, running in and out of every chamber, louder and more powerful than a heartbeat.
---
When the demon invaded his body, the loss had been corporal. Mortal remains, remaining, but suspended in the moment. Bone, sinew, muscled limbs, all present and correct, but cold: dead. It was a strange feeling, existing but not existing. No heat, no pulse, no appetite. Everything was easy. Far too easy. He moved with no pain, no sense of physical limitation. Less walking than prowling; languid, liquid, as if his body were living molten metal. There was no challenge, bar the challenge of how to fill eternity.
He'd found challenges, of course. Bloodlust was a given. That dark red rush of bloody passion, which filled his mouth, sang in his ears and his heart. But the thirst was never quite sated. He hated to admit it, but after a couple of hundred years it had lost it's edge. The slight metallic aftertaste only added to his sense of loss - as if the pool of metal inside his limbs simply absorbed and then demanded, again and again. Sweet addiction in the beginning, but the pleasure fading a little each time, leaving nothing but a dull aching need for something to take it all away.
Alcohol helped. It helped a lot. It burned the inside of his throat and belly, kick started the sleeping machine into something resembling life. He could feel the fire, hot chills spreading through his chest, tiny flames licking at his ribs - and the more he drank, the more painful the burn. Pain was good - it made him feel visceral, connected to the body that was his, but not his. Piercing skin, drinking in the life from another, connected him for a moment, but never long enough.
Of course, he'd tried other drugs. Opium in China, acid at Woodstock, but his drug of choice was always alcohol. For a start, his body parts stayed where they were supposed to, even if the world around him didn't. Drunk, Spike could spend hours gazing at his hands. He would stroke the skin, flex the fingers, trace the spider web of veins, morbidly fascinated by his own flesh, living but not living, not even a heartbeat away from dust.
Alcohol didn't always make him so introspective. Sometimes it just made him belligerent. Back in the seventies, punk had taken him from East End bad boy to bleach-headed anarchist. It was like coming home. Sex and leather, pain and piercings, disaffected youth with nothing to lose. Easy pickings. So, more often than not, alcohol took him back to those glory days, when he sang tunelessly and played air guitar, sticking his fingers up and saying fuck off to everyone who had ever mocked him.
The only other drug he knew came through the flickering screen. In the privacy of his stone chambers, the images played out every fear and fantasy. His particular addiction was teen drama - wide-eyed innocents, walking a tightrope over their emerging sexuality. Dawson's had it all; young tight flesh and raging hormones. Jen was a babe, and he had no doubt that she already had a dark side. But Joey - that long soft brown hair, falling feather light on her perfect collarbones. The full rosebud lips, creamy skin, all trembling insecurity. Her neck was made for biting.
William had missed out on those early fumblings and died a virgin. Although Spike had made up for that in violent number, the teenage boy inside him missed the thrill of a real chase. True satisfaction came at the end of the game, although the game was more fun if you didn't play by the rules. Dru had just been mad - the only chase was keeping up with her mind. 'Miss Edith says you've been a bad bad man. Bad men don't get to play today'. Insanity had a certain charm, but one that wore thin with time.
Now, finally, Spike was where he'd wanted to be, after the chase, painful and bittersweet as it was. Out of habit, he looked down at his hands. He clenched and unclenched a fist, feeling the last vestiges of the soft tingling electricity, the slow burning afterglow. He lay awake, listening to her breathing, and trying not to think about tomorrow. <Where the fuck do we go from here?> He had the decency to snort quietly to himself about the ridiculousness of his situation. Lying in bed, next to the slayer. Of all the women in all the world…although, he thought, it made sense. Where was the fun in sex, if there wasn't the danger? Sex and pain. Sex and pain. No pain, no gain. Dru had taught him that.
---
He took her by the hand, after that first kiss outside the Bronze, pulling her along, senses whirling. He felt a rush of power, the like of which he hadn't felt since China. Striding through the streets, omnipotent. Anything was possible and everyone was at his feet. King of the world; king of her world. His eyes were gleaming, the heart in his chest bursting. He was in the moment, and, at the same time, outside of it, watching the scene unfold in slow motion. Wanting to hit fast forward, to see the end of the ride but also to hit the pause button, to linger over every delicious second.
The silence was perfect. The streets were deserted; just the echoed sounds of leather soles and heeled boots smacking the tarmac and Spike's leather duster slapping against his thighs. They stopped at the entrance to the cemetery. "Yours or mine?" Buffy asked, hesitant. "Mine". This was going to be his night. He was in control for the first time and he wasn't about to let it go. He swept Buffy up in his arms and carried her the short distance to the crypt, like some bizarre Sunnydale parody of the Bride of Frankenstein.
Spike kicked open the door, carried her over the threshold and set her down gently, before pushing the door closed. He didn't take his eyes off her as he circled round, then walked to the window. He ripped down the heavy velvet drapes that covered the window in daylight and lay them down over the stone table top. Buffy was watching him. What was she thinking? He felt suddenly on edge, trying to read her, watching for any signs that she was about to come to her senses and bolt. He walked slowly towards her, trying not to make any sudden movements. When he reached her, he saw her face, watching him with a catlike half-smile.
He reached out and took her hand. It felt tiny in his but the strength in her grip was unmistakable. Still playing to win. Buffy pulled into him and wrapped her other hand around the back of his neck, curling her fingers in his hair. The touch sent electric shocks down his spine and jolted into his groin. He leaned into her and pressed his face into her hair, feeling an unfamiliar sensation in his gut. His stomach was doing somersaults, his heart in his suddenly dry mouth.
<I have to make this right. I fuck this up, it's all over, here, now. Come on Spike, you can do this>
Her hair felt so soft as it slipped through his fingers. He stroked the tresses that framed her face and then gently tilted it upwards towards him. As she leaned back with her eyes closed, the moonlight from the window grazed her cheekbones, bringing her features into sharp relief. She was so fucking beautiful. Before she could open her eyes, he bent down and dragged his lips slowly and deliberately across hers. Buffy grasped his head tightly to her and, feeling her mouth open and her tongue thrust against his, he gave in, clashing tongue and teeth, pressing into her hot mouth. His head was spinning, his mouth burning with the unaccustomed heat, but he lost himself inside the feeling, slipping and sliding over her tongue, pressing, pounding until she pulled away, gasping for air.
"Hey, I need the oxygen, even if you don't".
"Sorry" <God, I can't believe this is real. Take your time, slow down, old boy>
While he composed himself, Spike ran his hands over Buffy's shirt, appreciating the contrast between the red silk, her pale skin and her black trousers.
His colours. They suited her.
Spike shrugged off his duster and laid it over the chair. He pulled Buffy towards him and cocked his head to the velvet spread. "Not quite the four-poster". Buffy grinned and pulled herself up onto the table top, facing him. She leant down and unzipped her boots, then kicked them off into the corner of the room. Still grinning, she started to undo the buttons of her shirt. "Get your ass over here then". Spike chuckled, then stepped up to her, taking her hands and holding them behind her back. Buffy wrapped her legs around his waist, lowered her head and started to bite lightly on his neck. He felt another surge go through his body and his cock started to press uncomfortably against the fly of his jeans.
Encouraged by Buffy's actions, Spike buried his head in her neck, sucking at the base, where the pulse was strongest. She bit harder in return. He could smell the blood near the surface and could feel the demon in him pushing through. For a split second, his teeth sharpened into fangs and he pressed the jagged points against her flesh. As the telltale sparks began to fly in his head, Spike wrenched himself free and took a deep, steadying, if unnecessary, breath. Buffy just leaned her head to one side, offering her neck to him, teasing, knowing what he wanted and knowing he couldn't take it.
Bitch.
He looked back up to Buffy's face and held her gaze while he undid the buttons on her shirt, slowly, one by one. When he finished, he started to push it off her shoulders, exposing piece by tantalizing piece of her. He saw black lace at the curve of her breast and swallowed hard, hands starting to shake. He carried on, slipping off the shirt and dropping it to the floor before pulling off his own and letting it slide down to join the other; tangled strips of red in the dust.
Pausing briefly to place a kiss on one shoulder, he pulled down the straps of her bra and slowly unclasped the front, letting her breasts slide into his hands. So soft, and so warm, skin like satin. He grasped the nipples with a thumb and forefinger, twisting gently and was rewarded with a sharp gasp. He bent his head and sucked the nipples into his mouth, one at a time, teasing and nipping with his teeth. Sliding his hands to the waistband of her trousers, he undid the zip. Buffy raised her hips slightly to allow Spike access, while he hooked his thumbs under her black thong and slid both items off together.
Naked, she lay down onto the rich burgundy drape.
Lying in the moonlight, all pale white flesh, encased in the blood red shroud, she looked like a sacrificial lamb - until he caught her expression. Nothing meek in that. Proud, almost haughty, challenging him to come up to scratch. Damn her. She wasn't going to make this easy. Still, neither was he.
Spike pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it to one side. He leaned over her, planting damp kisses on her stomach. As his head moved lower, his nostrils filled with her scent. Sweet Jesus. As he kneeled at the table's edge, he bent to the source, holding his lips millimeters away from her, and waited.
Buffy didn't move.
He held off, <Tell me you want me>
She still didn't move.
Damn it.
Spike gradually lowered his head and pressed his lips against her.
Head rush. Spinning and swirling, out of control. Taste and touch, overwhelming him. Pressing and pushing, sinking into her salty sweet flesh, tongue finding form, texture like warm cream and velvet. He could smell the blood in her veins, driving him crazy. Wanted it, but wanted all of it. To be part of it. Living and breathing. Rushing through every vein, spreading into every blood vessel and every capillary. Crashing headlong into her heart.
Finally, her sounds pulled him off the rollercoaster. She was breathing heavily, moaning. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the sheen on her skin. Smelled the spice and sweat. Lifting his pale hand, he stroked softly at her tender flesh. He felt the warmth enclose his cool slender fingers. Pushing, then twisting, turning, the smooth muscle giving way, deeper and deeper, until she was riding his hand, grinding down onto him. His mouth slipped away and she cried out. He lifted his head to watch her face and pressed his thumb into her swollen bud. She arched towards him.
He stroked circles across the sensitive pearl and felt her starting to tense, her muscles clenching around his fingers. Just as her breathing began to come in short gasps, and the rosy flush spread up to her cheeks, he stopped. Through his narrowed eyes he saw Buffy opening hers, unfocused and uncomprehending. Holding his hand completely still, he cocked his head at her, a smile curling on his lips.
"Well?"
Buffy looked at him, incredulous. "Well what?
"What do you say?"
"Do you really expect me to say please?"
Spike snorted. "No". Then, seeing her confused reaction, his expression changed.
Now he was pleading. Insistent.
"Just tell me you want me"
Buffy looked searchingly at him, "Can't you tell?"
"Say it"
Pause.
"I. Want. You."
Spike exhaled suddenly, not realizing he'd been holding a breath. He saw her face, skin flushed, eyes bright, tousled hair damp at the roots, and felt his stomach jump. He pulled back his hand, leant forward and kissed her, gently. Crawling up beside her on the velvet, he pulled her body against him, feeling her heat spreading into his. He closed his eyes; felt the warmth filling his veins and let the sensation spread, like a morphia rush.
Buffy reached down and slipped her hand under the fly of his jeans. Deftly, she prized the first button free and then tugged at the rest; each button giving way with a small popping noise, releasing him. She hesitated; Spike closed his hand over hers and pulled it down, enclosing his cock. The burn of her fingers was exquisite as she started to slowly move her hand up and down, igniting white-hot flames that leaped up into his groin.
He forced himself to concentrate as the fire burned into his back and belly. His body was tingling, electricity creeping across his scalp and spreading right down to the soles of his feet. But, he wanted to feel this with her. He pushed his hand back towards her, and, focusing every feeling into his thumb and fingers, pressed back inside her.
At that moment, the connection was complete. A closed circuit. Energy captured, flowing in a continuous loop, through him, into her and then back.
She bucked towards him, and he caught the rhythm. Lifting and twisting, his body responded in kind. Her pulse in his thrusting hand vibrated against his skin, until he felt a corresponding pounding in his own heart. Her hand matched the beat and they pressed tight against one another, gathering momentum, hungry mouths colliding, urging the other on, and on… and on….. Thrusting, sweating, gasping, grasping, until…..
For a few precious seconds they were suspended together on the edge. For a moment it seemed that they might not make it.
In his mind's eye, Spike reached out and took her hand.
<Come on. Let go. Let it go.>
He felt Buffy clench his hand tight, and then they fell together.
Falling,
down,
down.
Sweet Release.
~Fin~